twisted wonderland *(i think some malleus reblogged may be yandere but i think almost everyone else is fine)
genshin impact *(childe has some of the darker and yandere reblogs the others are mostly just smut i think)
obey me *(some dark fics reblogged (demonic stuff and yandere) but all the luke ones will and will forever be platonic)
attack on titan (mostly yelena)
moriarty the patriot
black butler
yandere games (other) *(yandere and darker topics)
otome games (other)
some tags and characters have dark content reblogged so mdni, but some characters and franchises i’ve reblogged are sfw and fluffy. so proceed with caution ig. *
tw: non/dubcon, yandere, possibly stepcest (i don’t remember but i think there may be one or two), heavy on smut
The heat in the room was suffocating, your face flushed hot with embarrassment and something else. Caleb had your back pressed tight to his chest, arm caging you in while his hand held your jaw in a firm grip, making sure you couldn't look away from the obscene video playing on his phone.
“Dont be shy now pips.”
In your defense, you didn’t mean for this to happen, you were merely curious. Caleb never restricted you from any of his things. Passwords, keys, belongings, everything was at your access and disposal, but thinking back on it, you realized you’d never actually utilized all that privilege.
So just for your own amusement, not really expecting to find anything, you took a peek at his phone when he’d left it lying around. To your utter surprise, you found his own little porn collection. And to make matters worse, Caleb walked right in on you.
“Ah I see I’ve been caught.”
He took great enjoyment seeing how flustered you got at his depravity. “Well, since you’re so curious, I might as well tell you all about them.”
You helplessly squirmed in his lap as he sat you through each and every video, pointing out different details and reasons for why he had them saved.
“This one,” pointing towards a girl getting railed on screen, her loud moans and smacking noises filling the quiet room, “she has hair like yours.”
Swiping to the next, it was another girl getting eaten out by a man. “That–” Caleb chuckled, his breath sending a wave of goosebumps down your neck, “I wanted to try that out on you someday.” He made you watch as the man on screen licked and rubbed her clit.
You would be lying if you said all this wasn't resulting in a pool of arousal in your underwear. Unbelievably turned on by the fact that your Caleb had been thinking of you while–
“Gege needs to jerk off too baby, ‘m not perfect.”
You whined in his hold, desperate for him to finally touch you and your leaky pussy. “Caleb no more–”
“Nuh uh, we have to see it through pips.” Suddenly, he reached down to rub you firmly through your shorts. “Gotta get her nice and ready for me.”
He cooed and caressed you through your misery, his hand dragging your face back to the screen every time you looked away, whispering “shh” and wiping your tears away when you sobbed at your pussy clenching around nothing.
“Look, she cries like you, doesn't she?”
By the end of it, you were delirious from begging for dick. He finally relented, kicking off his clothes and your own, laying back on the couch and pulling you up with him.
Your hands planted on his chest, trying to regain sanity with the way his dick was rubbing up against you. Meanwhile, Caleb was smirking below you, watching you struggle to line him up with your entrance.
“Dick s’yours, put it in– fuck.” His words melted away into a groan as he felt your searing heat envelope him, eyes shutting tight.
You sighed at the stretch, sinking down on his impossible size, body held upright by nothing but his hands.
Right as you felt like you were stuffed full, you looked down to see a good few inches of him still outside of you. But you simply couldn't care less and selfishly began riding the part of his cock you managed to fit.
“Pi- pips, what are you doing?” He had his eyebrows scrunched, hands tightening around your waist as he tried to not to shove you down onto his cock.
“I can’t Caleb, ‘s too big.” You just couldn't put him in the rest of the way.
“Psh, do you want gege to help you baby?”
And you nodded, cockdrunk and not fully realizing what you were agreeing to.
“Okey doke.” he grinned and reached up to capture your lips in a deep, filthy kiss, tongue tangling with yours and distracting you from the way he shifted his hold on you.
And he pulled you down all the way.
Your eyes widened, mouth gasping against his as a slurry of fuck fuck fucks escaped him. For all you knew, he could’ve just displaced all your organs.
The shock didn't last for long before it bloomed into hot pleasure. You gripped onto his shoulders, rolling your hips and setting a needy rhythm.
“Just like that sweet girl, ride your gege.”
And you rode him like a woman possessed, desperate and sloppy, forcing yourself up and down his length until the wet slapping sound echoed off the couch.
Caleb’s breath hitched, looking like he was painfully close.
“Okay now– stop moving. Stop,” he whimpered, hands pinning your hips still through your squirming.
He looked up at the ceiling, gritting his teeth as he summoned everything not to bust a load in you right then and there.
And then he suddenly turned your bodies, shifting you to pin you down on the couch instead, swinging a leg over his shoulder, scowling.
“Lemme do my work now.”
And a switch flipped as he started rutting into you like he’d gone nuts.
He kept hitting all your spots, your back lifting clean off the cushions as your release took no time to hit you like a truck.
He sobbed at the feeling of your pussy clenching him like a vice, and he held you closer, chests touching as he rested his forehead on yours, feeling his own climax not too far behind.
“Inside? Fuuck. inside.”
He gripped your ass, pulling you flush against his hips as he filled you up with his seed. He stayed there for a moment, feeling the warm liquid trickle out of your plugged hole and onto the couch, whispering I love yous into your skin.
He huffed, using his arms to pull his weight off you, caressing your bare stomach as he grabbed his phone that was tossed off the side.
“You know…”
He pulled up the camera on his phone, a smile tugging the corner of his lips.
“Maybe you could help gege expand his collection.”
synopsis: caleb makes you use his evol to ride him. that is all.
tags: smut, dom caleb, mean caleb, mean dom caleb, lowkey brat reader, p in v, riding, improper use of evol, unprotected sex, coming inside, somnophilia reference, he threatens to withhold his own orgasm, teasing, mocking, caleb makes you kiss him, sweat, implied marathon sex, impact play, Caleb the Interrupter
pairing: caleb x fem reader
word count: 1.1k
“when you sink down, do it slowly. i want you to feel every inch of it.”
“isn’t this too much?” whining, you make a desperate attempt to escape—to no avail, of course. that familiar feeling weighs down on your body almost instantly. “please? i’ll help you next time, i swear! today was just a one-time thing!”
“you begged me to help you clean up the house before your big book club meeting this weekend. i take off work, get here early, and as soon as we get started, what do you do?” glaring at you from below, he clears his throat and puts on a high-pitched voice. “caleb, i’m so sorry, but my friend’s car broke down. i need to drop them off at the store, then at work, but i’ll be back soon, i swear!” he squeaks with a dry chuckle. “yeah. if by ‘soon,’ you meant seven hours later.”
“there was traffic! and i ended up just staying through their whole shift, because—”
“i’m not fallin’ for your little tricks today, so you can cut it out already.” he takes your chin between his thumb and index finger, firmly forcing you to meet his heated gaze. “our house is spotless because of me. my hard work. it’s time for you to return the favor.”
his hand engulfs yours, and the familiar warmth of resonance flows through you.
caleb gives, you take, just like usual. he lets his power becomes yours and smiles at the sight.
this time, his reasoning is far from selfless.
“don’t hurt yourself.”
it’s his command for you to start.
whimpering quietly, you sink down on his thick, hard length, breathing slowly while your body accommodates the stretch.
by now, your core is more than used to him—his size, his girth, his occasional punishing pace—but now, you hold the reins. mastering the monster bullying the rawest parts of you? it’s almost as big an adjustment as your first time together.
he watches you brazenly as you start your own rhythm, maneuvering yourself with timid, exploratory drags up and down. when you channel his evol, harnessing gravity to inch yourself up ever so slowly, you can feel his hot, tender skin slipping past your walls, promising never to leave you for very long. and each time that invisible force tugs you right back down? he grows a little bit bigger inside you.
a sharp hit to your backside disrupts your unsure movements, the loud crack resounding through the otherwise quiet bedroom. “you think you'll get any leverage like that? hold onto me harder. push at my chest if you need to. i can barely feel you.”
gritting your teeth at his wanton order, you bury your nails deeper into his skin. you tell yourself you don’t care if it hurts—he deserves it—but eye him with caution all the same. “i’m trying, caleb. you know i’m not used to this. i’m already getting tired. i’m not as strong as you.”
he tsks, knocking on your temple twice with his knuckles. “a fact hardly works as flattery.”
“i—”
“you say you’re sooo tired,” he drawls. “how? i’m doing all the work, just like always.” to prove his point, he flicks a hand in the air. your head tilts forward at his command, and he puppeteers you down for a heated kiss.
he pulls back once your air supply starts to wane, only to narrow his eyes as your skin smacks together once again. “i may get tired, letting you use me like this, but don’t think you can stop if i drift off for a sec. we’re in this for long haul. you can stop when…if…i say so.”
“can you at least help me?” even with his support, your thighs still burn like hell.
“if you’d helped me this afternoon, i’d be rewarding you right now. you’d be moaning my name even louder than normal.”
“caleb, please,” you whine. “what else do you want me to do?”
“just keep going,” he says smugly. “i did allll the work earlier. i’m not doing a single thing ‘til you prove you can pull your own weight. right now, i’m just gonna sit back and enjoy my luxury view.”
grumbling, you swipe at his neck but keep moving, gasping when the slight curve of him brushes just right against that special spot.
“are you getting close?” he purrs. “good. go faster.”
faster? since his outright refusal to help you, you’ve made enough squelches and smacks to make an erotica author blush. lines of muscle and stores of fat ripple with every slam down on him. how are you supposed to go faster?
“i can’t! this is as fast as i can— i can’t go any faster, caleb.”
your cries fill his ears, and he leans in close to murmur in yours. “make me come, and i’ll let you stop. but unless you go faster, i’ll hold everything back. we’ll be here all night. i promise you that.”
you’re babbling now at the weight of his threat, spearing yourself up and down on his length too fast to even sneak words in between. each time you rise and fall in the air, all you can smell, all you can taste, is sex. you and him, him and you. both of you, together.
despite his bravado, his head falls forward on the hardest bounce yet, slumping against your sweat-slick shoulder. he doesn't hesitate to mouth at the damp skin, groaning as his thighs finally start to tremble beneath you.
“good,” he hisses. “so, so good.” an open-mouthed kiss sears your collarbone. “can you feel it? how close i am? you’ll feel all of it soon. don’t stop.”
“not gonna stop,” you slur, shaking your head frantically. “just hurry, please. i can’t hold on, i can’t, i—”
strong arms wrap around your back and yank you downward. fully seated on his spasming cock, you feel the heat first—then the unsteady bursts flowing inside you.
each thick spurt flooding in, claiming all of you, plays its part in sending you over the edge. before his high loses momentum, your muscles clamp down on him, forcing all of what’s left into your deepest depths.
gasping to catch your breath, you all but mewl into his keen ears. “there’s so much…so much…we need to wash the sheets before we go to be—”
big, warm hands squeeze the flesh of your thighs, hovering you threateningly above his still-soaked tip. that cruel, cunning smirk you’ve come to dread curves his full lips. “i said you could stop when you made me come,” he murmurs lowly.
synopsis: caleb makes you use his evol to ride him. that is all.
tags: smut, dom caleb, mean caleb, mean dom caleb, lowkey brat reader, p in v, riding, improper use of evol, unprotected sex, coming inside, somnophilia reference, he threatens to withhold his own orgasm, teasing, mocking, caleb makes you kiss him, sweat, implied marathon sex, impact play, Caleb the Interrupter
pairing: caleb x fem reader
word count: 1.1k
“when you sink down, do it slowly. i want you to feel every inch of it.”
“isn’t this too much?” whining, you make a desperate attempt to escape—to no avail, of course. that familiar feeling weighs down on your body almost instantly. “please? i’ll help you next time, i swear! today was just a one-time thing!”
“you begged me to help you clean up the house before your big book club meeting this weekend. i take off work, get here early, and as soon as we get started, what do you do?” glaring at you from below, he clears his throat and puts on a high-pitched voice. “caleb, i’m so sorry, but my friend’s car broke down. i need to drop them off at the store, then at work, but i’ll be back soon, i swear!” he squeaks with a dry chuckle. “yeah. if by ‘soon,’ you meant seven hours later.”
“there was traffic! and i ended up just staying through their whole shift, because—”
“i’m not fallin’ for your little tricks today, so you can cut it out already.” he takes your chin between his thumb and index finger, firmly forcing you to meet his heated gaze. “our house is spotless because of me. my hard work. it’s time for you to return the favor.”
his hand engulfs yours, and the familiar warmth of resonance flows through you.
caleb gives, you take, just like usual. he lets his power becomes yours and smiles at the sight.
this time, his reasoning is far from selfless.
“don’t hurt yourself.”
it’s his command for you to start.
whimpering quietly, you sink down on his thick, hard length, breathing slowly while your body accommodates the stretch.
by now, your core is more than used to him—his size, his girth, his occasional punishing pace—but now, you hold the reins. mastering the monster bullying the rawest parts of you? it’s almost as big an adjustment as your first time together.
he watches you brazenly as you start your own rhythm, maneuvering yourself with timid, exploratory drags up and down. when you channel his evol, harnessing gravity to inch yourself up ever so slowly, you can feel his hot, tender skin slipping past your walls, promising never to leave you for very long. and each time that invisible force tugs you right back down? he grows a little bit bigger inside you.
a sharp hit to your backside disrupts your unsure movements, the loud crack resounding through the otherwise quiet bedroom. “you think you'll get any leverage like that? hold onto me harder. push at my chest if you need to. i can barely feel you.”
gritting your teeth at his wanton order, you bury your nails deeper into his skin. you tell yourself you don’t care if it hurts—he deserves it—but eye him with caution all the same. “i’m trying, caleb. you know i’m not used to this. i’m already getting tired. i’m not as strong as you.”
he tsks, knocking on your temple twice with his knuckles. “a fact hardly works as flattery.”
“i—”
“you say you’re sooo tired,” he drawls. “how? i’m doing all the work, just like always.” to prove his point, he flicks a hand in the air. your head tilts forward at his command, and he puppeteers you down for a heated kiss.
he pulls back once your air supply starts to wane, only to narrow his eyes as your skin smacks together once again. “i may get tired, letting you use me like this, but don’t think you can stop if i drift off for a sec. we’re in this for long haul. you can stop when…if…i say so.”
“can you at least help me?” even with his support, your thighs still burn like hell.
“if you’d helped me this afternoon, i’d be rewarding you right now. you’d be moaning my name even louder than normal.”
“caleb, please,” you whine. “what else do you want me to do?”
“just keep going,” he says smugly. “i did allll the work earlier. i’m not doing a single thing ‘til you prove you can pull your own weight. right now, i’m just gonna sit back and enjoy my luxury view.”
grumbling, you swipe at his neck but keep moving, gasping when the slight curve of him brushes just right against that special spot.
“are you getting close?” he purrs. “good. go faster.”
faster? since his outright refusal to help you, you’ve made enough squelches and smacks to make an erotica author blush. lines of muscle and stores of fat ripple with every slam down on him. how are you supposed to go faster?
“i can’t! this is as fast as i can— i can’t go any faster, caleb.”
your cries fill his ears, and he leans in close to murmur in yours. “make me come, and i’ll let you stop. but unless you go faster, i’ll hold everything back. we’ll be here all night. i promise you that.”
you’re babbling now at the weight of his threat, spearing yourself up and down on his length too fast to even sneak words in between. each time you rise and fall in the air, all you can smell, all you can taste, is sex. you and him, him and you. both of you, together.
despite his bravado, his head falls forward on the hardest bounce yet, slumping against your sweat-slick shoulder. he doesn't hesitate to mouth at the damp skin, groaning as his thighs finally start to tremble beneath you.
“good,” he hisses. “so, so good.” an open-mouthed kiss sears your collarbone. “can you feel it? how close i am? you’ll feel all of it soon. don’t stop.”
“not gonna stop,” you slur, shaking your head frantically. “just hurry, please. i can’t hold on, i can’t, i—”
strong arms wrap around your back and yank you downward. fully seated on his spasming cock, you feel the heat first—then the unsteady bursts flowing inside you.
each thick spurt flooding in, claiming all of you, plays its part in sending you over the edge. before his high loses momentum, your muscles clamp down on him, forcing all of what’s left into your deepest depths.
gasping to catch your breath, you all but mewl into his keen ears. “there’s so much…so much…we need to wash the sheets before we go to be—”
big, warm hands squeeze the flesh of your thighs, hovering you threateningly above his still-soaked tip. that cruel, cunning smirk you’ve come to dread curves his full lips. “i said you could stop when you made me come,” he murmurs lowly.
“You rang the bell...the bell means you need me.”
“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”
synopsis: butler!zayne is trained to anticipate your every need. what he hasn't been trained for is you—home alone, ringing the one bell he's never been able to ignore, asking for the one thing he's never been able to give.
wc: 8.8k | ao3
tags: butler!zayne, brat tamer!zayne, age gap, power imbalance, porn with plot, fluff + smut, comfort no hurt, spanking, edging, cunnilingus, hair pulling, vaginal sex, backshots, prone bone, size difference, aftercare
a/n: giving zayne one (1) barely legal fantasy……..as a treat……….
The first time you tried, you were sixteen.
It was the thick of summer, the kind of damp heat that turns the estate into a greenhouse. Your mother's garden party sprawled across the south lawn, and you’d hidden upstairs long enough to change into a sundress that was definitely too short and absolutely on purpose.
You padded barefoot down the service stairs to the kitchen, where Zayne—the perfect butler, the one who runs the household, the one who never lets anything go wrong—was reviewing the evening's schedule.
You perched yourself on the counter beside his clipboard, crossed your legs, and let the hem ride up.
“I need help with my zipper,” you said, turning to show him the back of the dress, which was zipped perfectly fine and you both knew it.
Zayne hadn't looked up from the schedule, hadn't so much as blinked. He simply reached over, tugged the zipper up the remaining quarter-inch it didn't need to travel, and said, “Will that be all?”
You stared at the back of his head, face burning, and vowed that one day you'd get him to break.
You tried again on your eighteenth birthday.
Your parents had thrown a party, the kind with floral arrangements and a champagne tower and three hundred people who knew your family's net worth better than they knew your name. You spent the evening smiling until your cheeks ached, accepting congratulations from strangers, and dancing with boys your mother hand selected who were perfectly nice and perfectly boring and perfectly wrong.
By midnight, you escaped to the kitchen—kicked your heels off, discarded your tiara on the counter, and sat on the floor with your back against the island eating leftover cake with your fingers.
Zayne had found you there. He'd taken in the scene—the dress pooling around you, the smudged mascara, the pink frosting on your thumb—and silently retrieved a fork before sitting down beside you.
He was still in his suit, still immaculate as ever, but he'd loosened his tie—and the sight of that one concession to comfort had made something hot pulse through you. You sat together in silence for a while, passing the cake back and forth. Then, because you were eighteen and a little drunk and very tired of pretending, you asked:
“Zayne. Do you think I'm pretty?”
He blinked, keeping his eyes shut for an extra heartbeat—processing the question, the context, the thousand reasons he should deflect.
“You've been drinking.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“The answer doesn't change based on your sobriety.”
“So there is an answer.”
He reached over and wiped a smear of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The gesture was gentle and natural, the kind of thing he'd done a hundred times when you were small. Except you weren't small anymore, and his thumb had lingered a second too long, and you ached to know if he’d still be gentle if he pressed it against your tongue.
“You should drink some water,” he'd said quietly. “And go to bed.”
“Come tuck me in, then.”
You'd meant it as a joke, but the words came out too soft and the look on his face told you that you'd gotten closer to something real than either of you was prepared for.
He didn’t give you a response. Just stood up, filled a glass with cold water, and set it on the floor beside you.
“Happy birthday, princess.”
You'd sat there alone in the kitchen as the door shut behind him, holding the cup with both hands, and hated yourself for pushing. Maybe hated yourself more for not pushing harder. You'd felt his thumb on your mouth for the rest of the night. For weeks after.
Sometimes, if you closed your eyes, you could still feel it now.
Tonight, you’re twenty, and the house is trying to eat you alive.
You’re home from university for winter break, but the house is empty—your parents are out of the country, occupied by some charity board retreat that requires a week of their attention. The staff has all gone home for the holidays, leaving you alone in a house that was built for thirty.
Alone except for Zayne.
Zayne stays. He always stays, because someone has to manage the property and someone has to manage you, and your parents have never trusted anyone else with either job.
The estate is settling into its bones, creaking and groaning like it’s alive and reminding you how small you are inside it. The hallways are too long, the ceilings are too high, and every shadow seems to have eyes looking directly at you.
You’re not scared.
You’re an adult. You have self-defense training and a home security system that could protect a small nation.
You're not scared.
The floorboards squeak directly above your bed, and you flinch so hard you nearly fall off the mattress.
Okay. Maybe you’re a little scared.
Your eyes find the bell on your nightstand.
It's small—worn with age, fitted with a wooden handle meant for hands of a much younger you. Your grandmother had gifted it after you'd had a nightmare and screamed the house down and said, Ring this whenever you need someone, darling. Someone will always come.
Someone always meant Zayne.
Your parents never really had the time, or the patience, or the interest in dealing with your whims. But Zayne…Zayne always did. He was paid to maintain order after all, and managing you was just another task—though it never felt like one.
Not when he answered the call of your bell every time.
You'd rung it the night of the thunderstorm when you were eight, and he'd appeared within minutes with a flashlight and a copy of The Secret Garden and read to you until the storm passed. You'd rung it the night before your first day of secondary school, sick with anxiety, and he'd brought warm milk and sat with you while you listed every possible catastrophe and he assured you, very gently, that none of those things would happen and that if they did, he would personally intervene.
You rang it less and less as you grew older, saving it for the real emergencies—when your first boyfriend broke up with you by text, or the night before your final exams when you couldn't stop shaking. He always came. Never commented on the hour or the reason, just showed up at your door ready to handle whatever you needed handled.
You haven't rung it in over three years.
You pick it up, letting the cool brass warm in your palm. You turn it over once, feeling the weight of it, the history, the lifetime of someone always coming when you called.
You ring it.
The sound is small in the vast quiet of the house, barely louder than the wind outside your window. But you know he hears it. Zayne hears everything.
Two minutes pass before footsteps echo in the hallway, followed by a soft knock at your door.
“Come in,” you call.
He opens the door and stands in the frame, and the sight of him makes your mouth go dry.
After all this time living under the same roof, you've only ever seen him in his suit, his work clothes, or—once, memorably—a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up that had nearly killed you. But this is something else entirely.
Grey sleep pants hang low on his hips, a white t-shirt stretching across his chest. His hair is tousled over his forehead, glasses sliding just slightly, jaw shadowed with the kind of stubble he'd never allow during working hours.
His eyes find the bell in your hand, and something in them softens.
“The house is making noises,” you explain.
He leans against the doorframe, taking in your oversized t-shirt, your bare legs, the way you’re sitting cross-legged at the center of your mattress on high alert.
“It's an old house,” he says. “It makes noises.”
“Scary noises.”
“You're not a child anymore.”
“Age and fear are not mutually exclusive.” You return the bell to the nightstand with unnecessary care. “I read that somewhere.”
“You read that nowhere.”
“I might have,” you counter. “You don’t know my reading habits.”
“You're currently halfway through a fantasy romance novel you hide inside a copy of The Economist when I bring your breakfast.” He crosses his arms, which emphasizes the broadness of his chest in a way that should come with a warning. “I know your reading habits.”
“It’s romantasy, Zayne,” you correct drily, though your face heats. “And that's—invasive.”
“It's observational. You leave the dust jacket loose.” He steps into your room, letting the door close behind him. “What do you need?”
You. I need you. I've needed you since I was sixteen and you zipped a dress that didn't need zipping and I need you to come here now and hold me and never leave this room.
“Company,” you say instead. “Just—stay for a while. Please.”
“There's a guest room adjacent to—”
“Zayne.”
“—mine, which I can prepare in—”
“Zayne, come on. You used to read to me when I couldn't sleep.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You were eight.”
“And you were a very good reader. I remember the voices you did for the characters.”
“I did not do voices.”
“You totally did voices. Mrs. Medlock had a Yorkshire accent.”
He tries to fight the corner of his mouth lifting and loses. “That's historically accurate.”
A branch scrapes against the window and you jolt, pulling your knees in tight to your chest, and you watch it happen in slow motion—the moment Zayne registers the current of anxiety beneath your bravado, the delicate weight of his propriety crumbling against the fact that you rang the bell, the bell that means I need you, the bell he's never once ignored.
He crosses to your bookshelf, scans it, and pulls out a slim paperback.
“Persuasion?” you say, catching a glimpse of the cover.
He takes a seat on the edge of your bed, leaving a tortuously polite foot of distance between his hip and your knee. “It was on the shelf.”
“It’s a romance novel.”
“It's Austen. It's literature.”
“You just gave me a hard time for reading romance novels.”
“I gave you a hard time for hiding them.” He settles his glasses higher on his nose. “And this is a novel about patience. Restraint. Waiting for something even when it seems impossible. I thought you could use the lesson.”
You scoff in mock offense. “Was that a dig at me?”
“It was a recommendation.” He opens the book, then clears his throat. “Now stop talking.”
He reads.
You lie back against your pillow as his voice fills your bedroom like candlelight, settling into the spaces between the house’s creaking. When you were younger, his reading voice was a sedative, designed to pull you under. Now you're aware of every inflection, every pause, every place where his tongue shapes a word in a way that makes your thoughts drift to what else his mouth could be doing if he stopped being so goddamn careful.
After a few minutes, you start to shift. Not dramatically—just adjusting yourself in a way that happens to settle your body closer to his.
“You're not sleeping,” he says without taking his eyes off the page.
“I’m listening.”
“You're fidgeting.”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re not using a blanket.”
“A blanket isn't warm like a person.”
His gaze drags between you and the blanket you never bothered to use, eyes caught somewhere between mild disapproval and reluctant indulgence.
“Come closer,” you continue. “I’m requesting warmth. As a service.”
He lifts a brow. “You're requesting warmth.”
“From my butler. Who is paid to ensure my comfort.”
“I'm paid to manage the household.”
“Managing me is part of the household.”
“A fact I'm reminded of daily.”
Still, he moves closer an inch. Then another, when you give him a look that says it’s not enough. He eventually ends up beside you, back against the headboard, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body but not quite touching.
“Better?” he asks.
You let your head rest on his shoulder, the way you used to when you were small—except you weren't thinking about the way his shoulder felt under your cheek then, or the firmness of the muscle, or the way he smells like clean linen shadowed with something rich and heady and him that you’ve never been close enough to catch before.
“Getting there. Keep reading.”
He obeys, though the words have lost all meaning. All that matters is the vibration of the words from his body into yours, the way the sound fills the aching space behind your ribs with something tender and safe.
You let a few minutes pass, let him settle into the false security of the routine—you leaning on him, him reading, the benign pretense that this is just an act of service. Then you curl closer, tucking your legs up and angling your body until you're pressed along his side with your face against his chest and your hand resting on his abdomen.
His reading stops.
“Comfortable?” he asks without looking down.
“Almost.” You spread your fingers wider against his stomach, savoring the way the muscles there tense beneath your touch. “Your heartbeat is fast.”
“I was reading aloud. That's exertion.”
“Liar.”
“Cardiovascular response to sustained vocalization is well-documented.”
“Seriously?”
“There are several studies. I'll send you the citations in the morning.” He shuts the book and sets it on the nightstand, effectively abandoning the charade. He folds his glasses and places them neatly beside it, pinching the bridge of his nose with a long exhale. “Go to sleep.”
“Hold me first,” you insist, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and guiding it to your waist. “I said I was cold.”
His hand rests at your side, settling on top of your shirt with a minimal contact that technically fulfills the request while giving away not an ounce more.
“Zayne.”
“Mm?”
“If I asked you to hold a box, would you balance it on one finger?”
“If the box asked to be carried with unreasonable specifications, possibly.”
“I’m not a box.”
“No. A box would be far less difficult.”
His arm wraps around you, pulling you against him properly, and the sudden full-body contact is dizzying. He's warm everywhere—the solid plane of his chest against your cheek, his arm heavy around your waist, his thigh pressed along the length of yours.
“There,” you murmur. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes,” he replies simply. “Now sleep."
“I’m not tired.”
“Then close your eyes and try.”
You shake your head against his shirt. “I can't sleep like this.”
“Like what?"
You shift, turning in his arms until your back presses against his chest. His body seems to adjust instinctively, turning with yours before his mind registers the implication—his arm resettling around your waist, chest flush against your spine, and you feel more than hear the sharp intake of breath he tries to hide when your bodies slot together.
“There.” You hum in approval. “Perfect.”
Zayne’s hand flattens against your stomach the smallest fraction, and the silence between you buzzes like a dare neither of you has the courage to break. The wind whips outside your window, but you don’t hear it, can’t focus on anything other than the way his thumb starts to move in a faint line, back and forth, tracing the hem of your shirt where its ridden up at your waist.
You’re barely breathing, afraid that any acknowledgment will make him stop, afraid that the touch you’ve been craving for so long will disappear before you even have the chance to feel it. His thumb runs over the hem again, and this time his fingertips dip beneath it—barely a touch, the rough pad of his finger against soft skin, and the sensation is so acute it makes your spine arch involuntarily.
He freezes, thumb stilling mid-stroke, as if suddenly remembering exactly who he is—and who he shouldn’t be right now.
“Don't stop,” you whisper.
His forehead drops to your shoulder. “You rang the bell.”
“I rang the bell.”
“The bell means you need me.”
“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”
When his hand moves again, it isn’t the absentminded tracing from before. His palm slides across your stomach with intent now, exploring the naked skin beneath your top—up your ribs, down to the dip of your waist, to the space just above the waistband of your shorts.
A soft noise catches in your throat and his hand stills, as if deciding whether to reward or reprimand the sound.
“More?” he asks against your neck.
You nod. “More.”
His hand resumes, but he doesn't go further, continuing the same path—ribs, waist, hip—following it again and again, learning you by touch. And every time his fingers drift close to the waistband, your breath catches, and each time he retreats to safer ground without crossing the line.
“Zayne—” Your voice is thin with want. “That's not—you're teasing me.”
“I’m doing exactly what you asked,” he replies, casually enough to make you want to put a pillow over his face. “You asked me to touch you. I'm touching you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you said. If you want something else, you'll have to request it.” His thumb draws an infuriating circle around your navel. “I’m a butler, not a psychic.”
He's playing the game, you realize. Your game, your rules, following your every request to the letter, and the compliance is intoxicating. He owns the control, yet the way he bends just enough to match your desire feels like a form of surrender uniquely his.
“Kiss me,” you try next.
“Where?”
You tilt your head to the side, certain he can see your pulse leaping where it shows. “My neck.”
He presses his lips there so gently it barely registers as contact, lingering for a moment before pulling back.
“Again,” you whisper.
He kisses the same spot equally soft, and you could scream from the tenderness of it, from how something so gentle can make you feel like you're burning alive.
“More.”
“More what?” His breath heats your skin as he speaks, and the almost-contact is worse than nothing. “Be specific.”
“Harder.” Your hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, and the groan that it pulls from him is quiet and improper and makes your thighs press together. “Open your mouth.”
He presses his mouth more firmly against your neck and parts his lips slightly, just enough for his tongue to steal a taste of your skin.
“Anything else, princess?” He holds there, lips parted against the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, breathing you in like he needs this just as much as you do. “I’m at your service.”
The title drips with affection and irony and heat, twisted together like ribbons old and new. Princess. He's called you that since you were small, since you used to stomp your foot and demand things and he'd raise an eyebrow and say as you wish, princess. Except now his tongue is on your body and your ass is pressed where his cock strains against his pajama pants and the word means something it was never supposed to mean.
You turn in his arms until you're facing each other on the pillow, his hand still on your waist under your shirt. This close, you can see where the hazel-green of his eyes has gone dark with desire, where his lips shine wet from where he kissed your neck, where the muscle of his jaw tenses with something that looks like it hurts to hold back.
You bring your hand up to soothe it, the stubble there rough against your fingertips. He leans into the touch, a tiny tilt of his head that presses his cheek harder against your palm.
“I want you to kiss me,” you whisper, “here.” You touch your own lips.
He leans in slowly, mouth stopping just short of yours, hovering over your lips.
“Here?” he asks.
“Yes.”
The kiss is barely anything. A brush of lips, the softest pressure, there and gone before you can feel it. You chase his mouth as he pulls back, but he's already out of reach—settled against the pillow, calm on the surface, though the flush at the tips of his ears betrays him.
“That wasn’t a kiss,” you pout.
“It was, definitionally, a kiss.”
“It lasted half a second.”
“You didn't specify the duration.”
“Zayne.”
“Yes?"
“Kiss me longer.”
He leans in again, pressing his mouth to yours for—you count—exactly two seconds.
“Zayne.”
“That was measurably longer. I can go get a stopwatch if you'd like to formalize the parameters.”
You roll your eyes and swear you feel his wrist twitch at your side.
“I want you to kiss me like you can't help yourself. Like if you have to tear your mouth away from mine you'll lose your mind. I want the kiss I imagine when I’m alone in the bath and I close my eyes and pretend it’s your hands on my—” You stop to catch your breath, frustrated, heat rising to your face that’s part shame, part want, all desperate anticipation. “That kiss. Give me that one. Please.”
His hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, cradling your head, angling you beneath him. His eyes move between yours and your mouth and back again, and the man who read you bedtime stories and carried you when you fell and tucked your blankets with precise corners is nowhere in this room. The man looking at your mouth right now is one who has been drowning for years and decided that here, now, tonight, he’s coming up for air.
“Hold still,” he says, and kisses you again.
This time he starts slow and stays slow, his lips moving against yours with a patience that burns, learning the shape of your mouth, the way you respond to pressure. His tongue traces your lower lip, not parting it, but outlining the edge, you whimper at the tease of it.
He swallows the sound, feeding it into his mouth like he means to keep it long past tonight, a secret possession for him and him alone. Finally—finally—his tongue slides against yours, deep and unhurried, filling your mouth until there’s nothing left but feeling.
The kiss goes on and on and on. Zayne is in no rush. He kisses you like he has all night, like time is a resource he intends to spend lavishly, like every stroke of his tongue against yours is an end in itself rather than a means to something else. And each time you try to speed up he gentles you, his hand on the back of your neck holding you in place, his mouth setting the pace, refusing to let anything take this moment away from him until he’s ready to release it.
Your hands slip underneath his shirt, pressing flat against his abdomen, and the muscles there flex at the contact. You trail both hands upward, following the ridges of his ribs until he huffs out a breath against your lips.
“Eager,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.
“Impatient,” you correct, tugging the hem of his shirt up his chest. “And maybe a little eager.”
“A little, hm?” He catches both of your wrists, halting your exploration. “These are going above your head.”
“That seems unnecessarily restrictive.”
“It seems like the only way to keep you from getting ahead of yourself.” He guides your wrists to the pillow above your head, pinning you there with one hand. “Better. Now stay.”
He releases his hold to remove his shirt, and whatever bratty comment you had prepared dies in your throat the moment he tosses it to the floor in a move so unlike your butler you’d laugh under different circumstances. He works your top off next, pulling it up and over your arms, letting it join his on the ground.
The cool air makes your skin prickle, and you fight the immediate urge to cover yourself—a reflex that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that you’re not generous in this department, never have been, and lying beneath him with your arms above your head and nothing to hide behind makes you feel completely, uselessly small.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
“Don't what?"
“Whatever you're thinking right now. Stop.” His fingertips graze your collarbone, then lower, trailing between your breasts. “You have no idea how many times I've thought about this body.”
“About my tragically average—”
“Finish that sentence and I'll make you wish you hadn’t.” His palm covers your breast easily, thumb brushing across your nipple. “These are perfect. And I don't say that about many things.”
“You say that about your silverware polish.”
“My silverware polish is also perfect. You're in excellent company.” He rolls your nipple between his fingers and your back arches off the mattress. “Responsive, too. Do that again.”
“I can't just do it on command—”
He rolls your nipple once more, firmer this time, and your body betrays you with an identical arch, with a sharp hiss of breath you can't hold in. Zayne watches it all unfold with an expression of deep, undeniable satisfaction.
“Interesting,” he says. “So it's pressure-dependent.”
“Are you taking notes?”
“I'm nothing if not thorough.”
He lowers his mouth to your breast, and the first brush of his tongue is almost painful in its relief. He paints a lazy, wet path before closing his lips around your nipple and sucking hard, drawing out a humiliatingly loud gasp from you that echoes through the room.
“That—” he says before his mouth closes around you again, teasing his teeth around the peak “—is my new favorite sound.”
He moves to the other side, giving it the same attention—tongue and teeth and the occasional scrape of stubble that sends sparks straight down your spine. His free hand stays on the breast his mouth just left, rolling your tight nipple between his fingers, then trails down your stomach, fingers grazing along the top of your shorts before retreating. Again and again he teases, each time a little further, each time making you jerk your hips up, chasing contact he keeps pulling away.
“You're doing that on purpose,” you say.
“Doing what on purpose?”
His fingers line the waistband again, dipping just below the elastic, and pull back. He blinks down at you, all wide-eyes and deceptive innocence, and you’re certain you’d be strangling him if your hands weren’t busy holding onto the pillowcase above your head for dear life.
“That. You keep almost touching me and then—“
“Patience—” He kisses the underside of your breast, your sternum, the dip of your navel. “—is a virtue.”
“Patience is for people who aren't this turned on.”
He pins your hip with one hand and you squirm harder, as if your body senses where he's headed and is vibrating with the need to get there faster, faster, faster.
“You never could hold still, could you?” You’re flipped onto your stomach so fast the room blurs. He works your shorts down your legs, leaving you facedown in nothing but your underwear. “Not once in twenty years.”
His hand strikes the curve of your ass.
You gasp, not from pain, more from the shock of it. The thrill that Zayne—controlled, careful Zayne—just spanked you on top of the same pink sheets he used to tuck you into.
“That's for squirming,” he says.
He lowers and presses a kiss to the spot he just struck, then smooths it over with his palm.
“You always needed this part,” he mouths against your skin, where it tingles from the sting. “The injury was never the problem. You just wanted someone to make it better after.” He travels higher, kissing up to the small of your back. “Every scraped knee. Every bruise. Every splinter you could have pulled out yourself but brought to me instead.”
“You had better hands than the first aid kit.”
“I had hands you trusted.” His hand settles at the base of your spine, nearly spanning the width of your low back. “You'd come find me wherever I was in the house and hold out whatever was hurt. Then stand there as long as it took for me to pay attention, looking up at me like I could fix anything.”
“You could fix anything.”
His hand slides up your spine with a familiarity that prickles at the edges of your memory. You've felt this hand on your back before—this exact path, this exact pressure.
Zayne has, too.
“Do you remember,” he says, bracketing your hips with his knees, “when you had me put sunscreen on your back?”
He asks as if every detail isn’t burned into your being.
It was the summer before you left for university—the sun was too bright, the pool smelled of chlorine, and your hot girl summer playlist terrorized every corner of the estate. You lay on your stomach by the pool with your bikini top untied and your bottoms hardly covering anything, and called your butler over with a voice you'd practiced sounding careless in the shower a dozen times.
Zayne, I need sunscreen. I can't reach my back.
He'd knelt beside your chair and obliged. His hands had been cool from the shade inside, the sunscreen warm from the sun. The restraint in his palms as they moved across your bare skin should have been unsexy but wasn't, because you could feel the effort in it as his fingers slid down your spine, across your waist, along the sides of your body.
You missed a spot, you'd said, though he hadn't. Still, he'd gone back and covered the same ground slower.
My legs, too.
His hands had worked your thighs, slick with sunscreen, rubbing the lotion from the backs of your knees up to where your thighs met the barely-there bottoms, the two inches of swimsuit the only barrier between the wet heat pooling between your legs and your butler’s thorough hands.
“I remember,” you whisper.
He traces the path now—down your spine, your waist, to the flare of your hip. The same route, the same pressure, except there's no sunscreen and no pretense, just his hands on your body.
“You lay there for an hour after I went inside,” he says, moving his palms in the upward strokes he'd used that afternoon. “In those godforsaken bottoms that hardly qualified as clothing.”
“They qualified.”
“They qualified as a provocation.” His hands move to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin. “And every time I moved away from them, you'd wiggle your hips and tell me I missed a spot.”
“You did miss spots.”
“I didn't miss a single spot. I take UV protection very seriously.” His knuckles graze your inner thighs, and your hips lift involuntarily. “You just wanted my hands closer to places they had no business being.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? So you don't remember what happened when I reached right about—” His hand stills at the crease of your thigh, fingers resting against the edge of your underwear. “—here?”
You press your face into the pillow because you remember exactly what happened.
“You spread these legs apart, just enough for my fingers to go somewhere they shouldn't have.” He follows the edge of your underwear with one fingertip, over the swell of your ass, down to the strip between your legs that does nothing to hide how desperate you are for his touch. “And I cleared my throat. And you said sorry, I'm just getting comfortable. And I said of course. And we both pretended nothing happened.”
“Something happened.”
“Something happened,” he agrees. “And you knew. You always knew. That's why you kept pushing me, isn’t it?”
He traces the same line again, the border between what’s covered and what isn’t. Though this time when he dips low, he stays there—hand cupping you fully through your underwear, the pressure of his palm against the soaked fabric at your pussy delicious and unbearable and enough to make you moan.
“Answer me.”
“Mm,” you manage. He rocks the heel of his palm in a slow circle, and your nails dig into the sheets. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
He grinds against you more firmly, pressing the damp cotton deeper between your folds. You try to press back, to reach for the friction you’ve been chasing all night, but he pulls his hand away.
“Yes,” you concede in a shaky exhale. “Yes, I knew, and I—I wanted to see what would happen if you didn't walk away. If you just—kept going.”
“Kept going where?”
You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “You know where.”
“I have a long list of places I've wanted to put my hands on you.” From this angle, you’re able to watch as he fists his cock over his soft pants, the light grey fabric darkened with precum where the head of him leaks. “So you're going to have to clarify which one you were hoping for.”
“Past my bikini. Past the line you always—” Your breath catches as his fingers brush inside your underwear, skating the skin he's never touched. “—always stopped at.”
“Like this?” His fingers slide deeper, tracing along the edge of your slit as he strokes himself more firmly, still not quite touching you properly.
“Further.”
“Greedy.” He removes his hand entirely, and you wince at the loss. “And then what? If I hadn't walked away. If I'd let my hand keep going while you lay there in the sun pretending to be innocent. What did you want to happen next?”
“I wanted you to—”
Your thoughts are interrupted by a blunt pressure against your center from behind—not Zayne’s hand this time, but his cock. The tip nudges between your thighs over the soaked cotton, the warm weight settling against the outline of your needy cunt.
“Keep talking,” he says, voice nearly a groan. He stays motionless, the thick head of him pressing the fabric further into you, letting you feel exactly what he’s withholding. “You wanted me to what, princess?”
“I wanted—” You try to push back against him, and his hand blocks your hip. “I wanted you to stop thinking and just take what you wanted.”
“What I wanted.” He rocks forward slightly, a small movement that drags his leaking tip down the length of you, his precum mixing with your wet arousal as he slides toward your clit. “You were eighteen years old, lying outside on a pool chair, and you wanted me to put my hand into your bikini and touch you.”
“Yes.”
“In the middle of the afternoon. Where your parents could have walked out and seen.”
“As if they’d bother paying attention.” He smacks his cock against your underwear deliberately, and any attempt at keeping your voice casual shatters. “Besides, I didn't care.”
“No. You didn’t.” Your panties cling to every part of you, slick enough that he slides easily between your thighs. The friction is obscene—his cock hard and throbbing where you’re soft and needy, separated by nothing but a scrap of ruined underwear. “I had to care enough for both of us. And you made me pay for it with every little scheme you pulled to put my hands on you and watch me try to walk away.”
“And?” You dare through gritted teeth, smirking into the pillow. “Did it work?”
His hand at your hip guides the rhythm into something more punishing. His mouth finds the back of your neck, and the kiss he presses there is soft and completely at odds with the way his hips are bucking against yours.
“I’m grinding my cock against your pretty little cunt in your childhood bed, sweetheart. What do you think?”
He pulls away suddenly, and between the filthy words and loss of his weight you think you actually could cry.
“These—” His fingers hook under the center strip of your underwear, knuckles gliding up and down between your swollen folds as he assesses. “—have been through enough tonight.”
“So ruin them the rest of the way.”
He tears the fabric with two hands, ripping them off you in one clean pull. His hands spread you open from behind, and the sound he makes at the sight of you—bare before him for the first time—goes straight to your core.
“Christ.” His thumbs trace the inside of your thighs, spreading you wider. “Look at you.”
He lowers his mouth to your low back and kisses his wa down, patient even now, following the path of your spine, nipping the curve of your ass, outlining the crease of your thigh with his tongue. You feel his breath against your center, warm and unsteady, then the lightest brush of his nose against your entrance as he breathes you in.
“Fuck, Zayne—”
“Language,” he chides, the word humming against you. His tongue drags a single, slow line through you from behind, and you both groan at the contact. “If you could follow instructions even once in your life, this would go much faster.”
“I don't want faster. I want more.“
“You'll get more. When I decide you've earned it.”
His tongue works in long strokes, tasting every inch of you he can reach from this angle, and when he finds a spot that makes your thighs tense under his palms, he stays there.
“You're—that’s—”
Your lack of composure only seems to spur him further. “Articulate as always.”
He licks into you over and over again, and you feel yourself clench around nothing, feel your body begging for something to hold onto that he hasn't given you yet. The angle this way, his mouth against you from behind, is indirect and maddeningly intimate and never quite enough and always almost there.
“Zayne—I swear to god.”
“Swear all you want.” His tongue barely grazes you, keeping you suspended with a laziness that borders on cruel. “Begging looks good on you.”
He spreads you apart wider with both thumbs and builds you back up with wet, hungry strokes that don’t have a rhythm, that aren’t meant to serve a purpose other than to let him taste what he does to your body, what he’s been doing to it since long before he answered the bell tonight. Pleasure pools low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, and you're right at the edge and—
He pulls away.
“No—” you whine. ”I was right there—Zayne, don’t—“
“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Not from this.”
“You can't just—”
“I can. And I did.” You hear him moving behind you, feeling the shift of weight against the mattress as he discards the last of his clothes. “The only place you’re going to come tonight is around my cock, and that’s not open for negotiation. I've waited too long for it to happen any other way.”
You feel the head of his cock press against you, this time bare against your slick skin. He doesn't enter yet, resting there with one hand on your hip, the other flat on the mattress beside your head.
“Last chance to ring the bell,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop.”
“If you stop now I will scream.”
He pushes in.
It’s slow, so slow you feel the stretch of every inch building in a long, devastating ache that empties your lungs and fills you with him. He groans hot against the back of your neck, fingers digging into your hip, and when he bottoms out you both need time to breathe. You’ve never felt so complete as you do in this moment, so perfectly full, Zayne’s cock thick and heavy as it throbs inside you. Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, pulling him deeper inside.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Language,” you mutter, the tremble in your voice undermines any sense of authority.
“You're right. How unprofessional of me.” He pulls back in a slow drag against your walls that makes your mouth fall open—and pushes forward again. “I’ll submit a formal apology. After I’ve made you come so hard you can’t speak, let alone critique my vocabulary.”
He starts to move, the full length of him withdrawing and filling you whole, and when he finds the spot that makes your thighs shake he doesn't say a word. You're soaked—you feel it on your thighs, hear it in every wet slide of him inside you, and your face burns even as your body seeks his with every thrust.
“You get tighter every time I pull out,” he observes. “Like you're trying to keep me inside you.”
"Am not—"
“You are.” He grinds forward and you clench around him again—hard—and his breath comes out in a hiss. “And it's making it very difficult to think straight.”
You turn your head on the pillow, looking back at him over your shoulder, because you need to see his face, need to see what Zayne looks like right now, inside you and undone. With his jaw tense, eyes dark, sweat at his temples—he looks nothing like the butler who irons his shirts twice and arranges bookshelves alphabetically. He looks like a man who has wanted something for a very long time and is finally, finally taking it.
“Eyes on me,” he commands when he catches your gaze drifting away. “You started this. You're going to watch me finish it.”
You scrunch your nose and stick your tongue out at him. “Make me.”
His eyes narrow with a flash between amusement and danger, and he wraps your hair around his wrist and pulls—enough to keep your face turned toward him, your neck arched, your eyes locked on his while he drives into you from behind.
“There's your make me, princess,” he says low, hips bucking harder with the leverage. “Any other requests?”
“Several,” you manage between thrusts, “but at your age I’d hate to put too much strain on you.”
“In all the scenarios I’ve imagined.” He gathers your hair tighter, using the grip to tilt your head back, and his tongue traces the exposed line of your throat from your shoulder to the bone of your jaw. “Not once did stamina come up as a concern.”
“You've been dreaming about me?” You try to sound unaffected despite the fact that your voice is shaking and your knuckles are white in the sheets. “Should I be flattered?”
“You should be terrified. I've had a long time to plan,” he says against your neck. “Though in my head, you were slightly less mouthy.”
You clench around him deliberately, and his groan vibrates against your back. “And in mine, you were considerably less smug.”
Zayne sucks hard at the sensitive skin above your collarbone in response before releasing your hair, letting it fall down your back. He braces both arms on either side of your head, and the change in position lets him go harder and deeper, his hips driving you into the mattress with each thrust.
“You've spent your whole life making sure no one could take care of you the way I do. Making sure no one else fit. Ruining yourself for anyone who wasn't me.” His hand reaches beneath you, and the first touch to your swollen, aching clit makes your entire body tense. He circles with barely any pressure, in time to the grind of his hips, and the combined sensation is almost too much to bear. “So now I’m going to give you everything you’ve been asking for all this time. Take care of you the way I’ve always wanted to. And you’re going to be good for me and take it.”
Every edge he pulled you back from tonight, every almost, every year of wanting with nothing to show for it—all of it—collects into a single climax that tears through your body in waves. You clench around him so hard his hips stutter, and his mouth is at your ear the whole time—
That's it—that's my girl—you've been waiting so long for this, haven't you? So long. I know. I know. I've got you. Feel that? That's all for you. You earned this—you earned every bit of it—
—and his voice is the anchor you cling to while the rest of you drowns, his name the only word left in your mouth, your mind, your heart.
He slows, letting you breathe as your aftershocks tighten around him in involuntary pulses. And you wait for it—for his hips to drive forward one final time, for the heat of him to fill you from the inside the way you've always imagined it would.
He pulls out instead, and the sudden emptiness makes you frown, your hips pressing back against nothing, searching for him.
“Zayne—why did you—” You turn your head, and the confusion must be written across your face, because his gaze softens even as he strokes his cock, slick from you, in long pulls.
“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he says, and the two words form a promise that makes your heart flip—that there will be other nights, that this is the first and not the last, that he’s already planning the ones that come after. “Tonight I want to see it on your skin.”
He straightens behind you, settling both hands on your hips. His thumbs press into the dip of your lower back, pressing circles over the skin there.
“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you asked me to put my hands on you by that pool. And I've thought about it every day since.” His palms trace the canvas of your back a final time. “Marking you. Imagining how pretty you'd look with the evidence of what you do to me all over your body.”
“You don’t have to imagine, Zayne. I’m right here.” You arch your back for him in shameless offering, and the sound he makes at the sight is low and wrecked and strips away any remaining possibility that either of you will ever recover from this night. “I’ve always been right here.”
“You're going to be the end of me,” he says through a ragged sigh. “You know that. You've always known that.”
“Promise?” you murmur, tilting your hips higher, giving him more of yourself.
His laugh is barely a sound, and his hand picks up speed, rougher now, knuckles brushing against your skin with each tight stroke. You watch his lips part, watch his brow furrow, watch the moment arrive on his face before you feel it on your skin—the warmth of his release spilling across the small of your back in pulses, painting your body with the proof that he was here, that this happened, that you belong to him in a way no amount of respectable distance will ever undo.
He stays like that for a while, breathing hard, looking at you looking at him. His expression softens into something so affectionate it makes your chest ache, and he leans down and presses a long, lingering kiss between your shoulder blades.
“Promise.” His hand finds yours on the pillow, squeezing once before pressing a kiss between your shoulderblades and lifting himself off you. “Now don't move. Give me ten seconds.”
“Was that an order? Because I've been told I'm bad at those.”
He grabs his pants from the floor, sliding them up over his hips. “Nine seconds.”
You hear the tap running, the drip of a towel being wrung out in the sink. He's back before you can count to four—warm cloth in one hand, cold glass of water in the other—and sits beside you on the bed.
He cleans you with a care that shouldn’t surprise you but makes tears prick behind your eyes anyway, following the path his mouth traveled earlier, rewarming the cloth twice because it cooled too fast and he noticed before you did. He wipes your thighs, the backs of your knees, places that don't need cleaning but get attention anyway. When he reaches the small of your back, he presses his lips against the clean skin there one final time before setting the cloth aside.
He helps you into fresh pajamas—a matching flannel set he selects from the second drawer of your dresser—lifting your arms, guiding them through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders and down your back. The gesture is so careful, so him, so entirely removed from everything his hands were doing ten minutes ago that a tear actually escapes down your cheek before you can catch it.
His thumb finds it, though, and wipes it away without comment, without concern, without making it into something you'd have to explain. He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders, tucking the edge beneath your chin the way he's done since you were small, and reaches for the glass on the nightstand.
“Drink,” he says, holding it to your lips.
“I’m fine—"
“Humor me.” The corner of his mouth lifts, barely. “I’ve been humoring you all night.”
He watches as you drink, gives a small nod of approval once he’s satisfied you’ve had enough, then sets the glass on the nightstand. He pulls on his t-shirt—you mourn the loss of his bare chest immediately—and slides under the covers beside you.
When you curl against him, his arms wrap around you like a reflex he's done fighting.
“I should resign,” he murmurs.
“You should absolutely not resign.”
“This is a rather significant breach of professional boundaries.”
“I don't care about your professional boundaries. I care about you staying in this bed.”
He lifts his head to look at you in the lamplight. With his hair wrecked, glasses long gone, and an expression so open and unguarded, he looks…younger. Lighter. Like something heavy has been set down after years of carrying it.
“Stay,” you whisper. “Not as my butler. Not as my anything. Just stay.”
His arm tightens around your waist. You feel his heartbeat match yours, both rhythms slowing to something calm. His chin settles on the top of your head, and for a while neither of you speaks, but the silence is nothing like the one that scared you an hour ago.
“Mm,” you hum against his chest. “I always get what I want eventually.”
“You do.” His thumb traces a lazy circle on your shoulder. “It’s your single most irritating quality.”
“And yet you keep indulging me.”
“You are exceptionally difficult to say no to.”
“So stop trying.”
“I suppose that would simplify my schedule considerably.” He pulls you closer. “Free up the hours I currently spend on damage control and cold showers.”
“See? Efficient. You love efficiency.”
“I do love efficiency.” His mouth presses against your hair, and you feel him smile. “Though I suspect you're going to be far more work than you were before tonight. Not less.”
“Probably.”
“Almost certainly.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” His fingers find the spot behind your knee—the left one, the one he knows is ticklish—and you yelp, squirming against him, your laugh bright in the quiet room. He catches you before you can escape and pulls you back against his chest. “Now promise me you’ll ring the bell again tomorrow.”
“That depends. Will you read me more Austen?”
“If you behave.”
“And if I don’t?”
His teeth graze your earlobe, tongue teasing the sensitive skin just below. “Then I suppose I’ll have to resort to alternative methods of tiring you out.”
You give his chest a playful shove and he catches your hand, kissing each knuckle one by one. You melt closer, curling yourself tighter against his chest, letting the cadence of his breathing, the warmth of his arms, the undeniable sense of home pull you under.
The house continues its symphony through the night—wind whistling through the cracks, pipes bellowing deep in the walls, wood floors sighing under the weight of the night.
Shoto who has always been repulsed by people touching as it reminds him of his father beating him when he was a child.
Shoto who constantly made excuses and advoids you every time you attempted to hold his hand or simply just touch him.
Shoto who had to watch you slowly distance yourself from him because you thought he hated you and didn’t want anything to do with you being his girlfriend.
Shoto who was at your dorm room door begging to be let in, his hair disheveled eyes as wide as the moon and a certain gleam in them.
Shoto who finally caved in and explained why he was so distant with you because being touched was like a literal slap in the face to his childhood.
Shoto who was now laying on your bed with you on his chest facing him, twirling his hair between your index and middle finger.
Shoto in the morning, having to leave so that Tenya wouldn’t realise that he was in a girls dorm room and report him to Mr. Aizawa.
Shoto who had this…feeling…in his stomach that he couldn’t quite place after leaving your room, no matter what he did, even after training and homework, he still felt…empty.
Shoto heart skipping a beat when he read your text message
My Love 💞: Heyyy Sho! Meet me in my room! I got popcorn and Howls Moving Castle ready!!!
Shoto who practically ran into your arms once you opened the door, a complete opposite to his usual composure of not wanting to be touched.
Shoto whose hands were all over you during the movie; rubbing you cheek, playing with your hair, forcing your hands in his hair and chest.
Shoto who couldn’t breathe anymore unless you had your hands on him, it didn’t matter. He felt incomplete without your touch now and he was definitely making it your problem.
A/n: sorry for not updating 🫣 my mental health is highkey lowkey deteriorating rn, but let’s not worry! I wanna make a Kirishima or Denki or Sero fic but I’m not sure what of? If yall have requests feel free to ask me! I can also do jjk characters, and AoT ones?
A casual midnight train ride with Xavier leads to a sweet confession.
956 words. fluff, late night conversations, yearning, friends-to-lovers, there's one suggestive line but the rest is cute, Frank Sinatra and 50 Cent are mentioned lol, f!reader, cross-posted on ao3
a/n: burnout has been kicking my ass lately lol, but I managed to write this anyway. I hope you like it :)
dividers by @diviniyae | ao3 link here
On this train ride with your lovely mission partner, the only thought on your mind is how to catch your heart as it decides to fall for him.
You’re laying your head on his shoulder as you hear his soft sighs, which are his attempts to stay awake. You wonder why he tries to do so even though you’re both coming home after a long shift, but leave it to Xavier to leave you with more questions than answers.
At least his flair for secrecy appeals to your endless curiosity, even though it has also led your heart to predicaments unfamiliar to you.
“Xavier, if the world falls apart…” You begin to ramble sleepily knowing he’ll entertain it. “Would you fly to the moon, Frank Sinatra style?”
His chuckle reverberates, sending happy little butterflies to flutter all throughout your body. Soft, gentle, and oh so comforting. “I’d try to save it first. Get rich or die trying, 50 Cent style.”
“That doesn’t make any sense!” But you laugh anyway because no emotion remains hidden when you’re around Xavier.
The train ride is quiet, with the few passengers around you living in their own worlds. You catch the titles of the books they’re reading and silently admire some of their tastes in fashion. Pairing a black scarf with a white shirt is an interesting choice, but then again, so is falling in love with your mission partner.
You don’t entertain that thought any further.
Xavier’s hand sits near your hip, but it settles atop your purse instead. If you were any bolder, you would hold it and notice the little details you could only imagine about. Maybe it has scars and little cuts from the sword he swings around like it’s nothing. Or, maybe it’s smooth, reminiscent of how comfortable it feels to be around him.
“If the world were to end,” he brings up the topic you had accidentally let go of, “I hope you’re safe, and I would find you wherever you end up at.”
You lift your head up to meet his gaze, not realizing how close you two would be. Your noses are practically touching, and you can see his blue eyes darken once he realizes. Soft, still comforting, but with a hint of a storm brewing as well.
“That’s such a mission partner answer,” you scoff, laughing with no humor in your tone. “Tell me what Xavier would say.”
You know it’s risky to tease him like that. Trying to pry open his vault is as futile as uncovering your own mysterious past, but there’s no harm in trying, right? Especially when you have Xavier softly chuckling at your attempts while the storm in his eyes disappears slowly.
“Hmm, Xavier would stand by your side no matter what.”
“Another mission partner answer.” You pout to tease, and judging by his wide eyes, it works. “C’mon. I mean much more to you than that, don’t I?”
His expression is indiscernible. On one hand, his smile is still there, everpresent the way it is when you have sleepless nights and you need illicit scenes to assist you. On the other hand, his eyes have darkened once more, turning into a storm hiding every thought he refuses to say aloud.
Only when the train halts and announces the stop does Xavier find the courage to look away. And while you don’t admit it, your heart drops, making you look away as well.
“Such a cute couple!” A passenger comments, and you look up to see what you swear is you and Xavier if you were given a kind, gentle future. A lovely grandmother waves at you as she walks out to her stop, a laugh erupting from the person holding her hand. It sounds as youthful as Xavier’s, yet the shakiness of it carries experiences inevitable in a long life. They leave the train with happiness so unavoidable the other passengers begin whispering to themselves with grins on their faces.
“Is it too late to tell them we aren’t one?” you whisper to Xavier, expecting his usual soft chuckle. You even poke his cheek to prepare for a wide smile.
Instead, however, his gaze darts from the train’s door to your eyes, and in the sudden closeness, he whispers, “I wouldn’t want to lie to an elderly couple.”
Lie?
A genuine chuckle escapes his lips at your surprised expression, and the implications sit in the nonexistent space between the both of you as the train continues its journey. The soft music and new conversations are what cushion your thoughts as you proceed to ask every one of them.
“What do you mean by that, Xavier?”
His smile radiates so much you’d think the sun was out on this night. “What do you think that means, starlight?”
You’re speechless. Your brain can barely go past the fact that he called you starlight — how playfully cruel of him to expect you to conjure up a coherent conclusion in this state.
But Xavier isn’t inherently cruel, so he makes his point clear. “I like you, and if… only if you want…”
You wait patiently for the words he’s too flustered to say aloud. The soft music and the conversations around you are reduced to nothing, all your focus settling only on Xavier.
“I’d like to be your boyfriend.”
You don’t know about the years of anguish he’s endured to find the courage to ask such a simple question. The stars he’s once looked up to for answers are now in your eyes, glossy and incandescent, as you find your voice once more.
And when you do, it carries your whole heart with it.
“Yes, yes, yes!”
The train ride becomes a memorable journey, leading you to your home.
a/n: ugh, I love Xavier. such a sweetie pie :3
thank you for reading! I appreciate any form of interaction, but a small comment would mean the absolute world to me. I haven't had much energy as of late, so I could really use the pick-me-up. I love you all so much!
You'd been acting up all afternoon during his work conference.
Purposely wearing a short sundress, only bending over when you knew he'd catch sight of your underwear riding up your ass. Hand lying on his thigh during presentations, inching so painfully close to his groin and stopping just short of cupping his balls through his slacks.
To say you were getting on his nerves was an understatement.
It all built up on the elevator ride down to the next conference room, after a quick lunch in his office where he surprisingly kept his composure - much to your dismay. So, you took drastic measures.
His hand was slack by his side, not quite touching you though you could tell his fingers were aching to. Wrapping around his wrist, you dragged him carefully under your skirt, letting him feel how wet you were. Your panties now damp from hours of working yourself up.
Wordlessly, you let his wrist go, not surprised when his hand lingered for a moment before dropping back to his side. He didn't so much as glance at you, but you noticed the tick in his jaw as the elevator reached the destined floor. One after another, people filed out.
Just as you moved to slip past Zayne, his fingers caught the mid-section of your ponytail and yanked it hard. You barely swallow the yelp that crawls up your throat, eyes widening a fraction as Zayne doesn't let go. Instead, he steps forward, iron grip still on your hair.
Your scalp stings slightly from where he had tugged, the pain sending a new wave of arousal straight into your abdomen. The doors nearly shut on the two of you before his free hand shot out to stop them. Leaning down in the process, his breath warm as he presses his lips to your ear. Two words were all you needed to hear.
"Behave yourself."
Since we wanna act all crazy n shit mid-day @zaynezone
summ. When the attacks start occurring in your small town, you end up having more to do with it than you originally thought. The cause of it is less pawsible (plausible) than anyone would think.
tags. red riding hood au, red riding hood!reader, village setting, semi historical?, but inaccurate probably, yandere caleb, reader is surprisingly chill with it, scent knk, caleb on his knees agenda, stalker!leb, fluff, slow build up but it's worth it i think, slight angst, comfort, mild g0re depictions, cursing, br33ding knk, oral (fem rec), p in v, plot twist u can probably see from miles away, p00sydrunk!Caleb, pathetic caleb, yearning
a/n. wowa this is my first fic in a WHILE. someone tell me why it takes me so long to write omg i rlly take my time don't I. anyways i was kinda hesitant to post this bc of the whole valko thing but this was in the drafts before his release so i'm posting it bc the girlies asked 🥹
w/c. 7k
Your front porch is empty.
The afternoon was melting into evening, meaning your bakery delivery should be awaiting on the steps right about now at the latest. It arrived once a week at the same time like clockwork. Or at least, it was supposed to.
A small frown tugs at your lips. You surely didn’t want to visit Grandma’s house with a half-empty basket of goods. But, your lovely grandmother only appreciates that you visit her regardless of what you bring. Still, you gather whatever fruit you have— plums, strawberries, and blackberries— and nestle them into your basket alongside the medicine.
The baker’s shop is just along the path, so you decide to stop along the way, if it means you’ll get some answers about the status of your goods. Your shiny black shoes are dirtying with each step you take on the paved road, kicking up dust as you go. But you pay it no mind; often do you take this path, and you’ve grown quite acquainted with the cobbler next door because of it who now shines your shoes for half the price.
It certainly feels like mid spring, with the sweet aroma of blooms a pleasant background during your stroll. The sun beams down on your signature cherry red hood. Bad habit as it might be, you’re often never seen without it, even if it means you sweat a bit underneath the cotton cloak. Your neighbors recognize your reddened figure immediately, even from a distance. They wave and smile and you return the gestures.
As you turn the corner, your leisurely pace slows further. There’s a murmuring of a rather panicked crowd that drowns out even the light chirping of birds. Your eyes flit about. There’s the Constable, some families from next door, and even ranchers from a few miles down south. Curious, you slide past a few anxious-looking villagers until you come to the steps of the baker’s shop they’re surrounding.
The large window that usually displays all your favorite sweets is shattered, and you can see the destruction of the interior, with various items toppled over from the counter as if there was a scuffle. Then, like a signature of whatever vicious artist painted this mess, there’s a claw-mark slashed into the wooden flooring. It is stained red.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. There’s been yet another attack.
Your little haven of a village has been experiencing them for a year now. First, a flurry of ranchers began complaining about the sudden loss of their sheep. Tens of corpses, they said, would be found in the morning, entirely gorged on by an insatiable beast. Village heads brushed it off as a larger wolf pack that must be passing through. Only, the killings persisted.
Next, it was the shepherd nearby who always offered you bottles of goat milk for only half an hour of light farm labor. His front door had been broken down, and he was found dead in bed with his hands bit off. That’s when it was resolved that this was no ordinary wolf the village was dealing with.
The third, you felt the most conflicted on. A shopkeeper had been found dead in a similarly gruesome fashion, mouth sliced open until it was unhinged form his jaw. You hardly knew him, didn’t want to after he repeatedly leered at you the last time you went to his shop, his thinly-veiled suggestions sending a cold chill of fear down your spine until you left empty handed and never returned since. Still, though you’d hardly wish such a horrid death on anyone, it was hard to feel very sorry for the man.
And now, the baker. You’d always order some of his fresh-baked, steamy loaves of bread to enjoy by yourself or with your Grandma. The selection of cakes he had was vaster than any other in the village. You spent so much time as a loyal customer that you were good acquaintances. And now he’s gone, too.
A few tears well up in your eyes.
Behind the sorrow, there’s aching guilt. A part of this is your fault. If you just hadn’t gone into the woods that night…
Your thoughts are cut off as the investigation continues.“…his eyes and nose were slashed clean off,” the watchman is muttering to the constable, and you truly wish you weren’t close enough to hear their conversation, because a fresh bout of nausea threatens you. You clutch your basket harder and will yourself to think of anything else.
“Little Red,” the watchman calls you, and you glance his way. “Are you on your way to your Grandmother’s house again? I suggest you wait at least a week. The woods may not be safe for you.”
You falter. Wait a week? The fruit and medicine in your basket will turn sour. She needs the nutrition sooner than later. Moreover, your Grandma will likely fret if you don’t visit her soon. She already worries too greatly about you, and such anxiousness is sure to contribute to her already-poor health.
“I cannot,” you insist, biting your lip. “She needs her medicine within a few days. And she will worry if I do not show.”
“Witnesses did say the wolf was seen fleeing east, so likely the opposite direction you’re headed,” the Constable chimes in.
“East? Let’s take our pitchforks and torches eastward and slay that beast,” a particularly rowdy rancher growls, and a few resounding cheers reveal just how enthusiastic the villagers are about ridding this curse for good. Your heart stammers. If they knew what you’ve done, would they brandish those pitchforks toward you, too?
The Constable only thinks to himself, before nodding once. “Little Red, go on, but be cautious. Likely no one is free to escort you if we’re to hunt down that beast. But the Hunter is out in those woods, too. Stop by his house on the way so he can ensure you’re safe.”
The Hunter. The worry alleviates a bit and blossoms into a sense of comfort. If anything can make you feel better, it’s the fact that the Hunter will be close.
You nod once, steel yourself, and set forth on the path again. The bustle of the village fades into the smattering of trees, expansive canopies darkening the trail and spiking your fear further. But you continue, humming a familiar tune to yourself that only you and the trees can hear.
It gets harder and harder to reign in your thoughts. You’re still shaken from what’s happened this morning, from the murder that took place while you were blissfully asleep just a few streets down. You duck your head until your hood blocks your peripheral vision if it means you’ll stop imagining beasts from the corners of your eyes.
There’s a crack of a tree branch that you barely hear underneath the rush of a sudden breeze. You freeze like a deer, dusted black shoes rooted to the ground. Nothing comes.
You will yourself to move after a long moment. For Grandma, you think. There’s no use in turning back now. Grandma needs her medicine.
Slowly, you continue trudging along, and decide to play a game. Indulging in the serenity of nature has always done wonders to calm you down, and even if said nature is frightening right now, you can still always look for the bright side.
You decide your game involves picking flowers in a specific order. It goes like this: you pick a pink flower, then a purple one, then a white one, without skipping a color. The spring showers have allowed a beautiful scattering of wildflowers to sprout alongside the path. And by the time you reach Grandma’s house, you’ll have a lovely bouquet to gift her.
It works, and you’re bounding happily down the path despite the looming darkness over you, absorbed in finding the next bloom. Purple, then white. You snatch up a pink one next and drop it into your basket with the others.
Repeat. Pink, purple, and white. The flowery mass in your basket grows. Pink, purple.
You don’t find a white even after many steps. The buds around you are every color— yellow, red, blue— except white. It’s silly, but a sort of competitiveness with yourself grows, and you find yourself wanting to continue the game.
You finally spot a white flower to your right, contrasting with the verdant grass that nearly hid it from your view. But it’s off the path, a few steps into the forest.
A hint of apprehensiveness grows. You know you’re not supposed to wander from the path. Grandma has instilled it into you herself. And with the incident this morning, getting lost is the last thing you should do.
You glance about as if anyone is around to reprimand you. But the flower is only about twenty feet away, and it’s not as though you’ll lose sight of the path when heading towards it. Your feet carry you towards it before you can second guess the decision.
Each quickening step you take matches your heartbeat. Maybe it’s dramatic, but you have always had rigid rules you’re made to follow, rules you’ve only broken once. Visit Grandma once a week. Buy from the baker every Sunday.
Never stray from the path.
But the thrill of breaking the rules is enough to keep you moving.
You halt in front of the flower and bend to pick it, skirts rustling blades of grass. Before you can rush back, there’s a sharp prick on your feet, and you wince, crouching to bat away whatever cruel insect has tried to suck your blood today. While you’re hunched over, your back is bared to the wilderness.
Just as you’re dropping the hard-earned flower into your basket, a hand grasps at your shoulder.
You shoot up, gasping and turning around. You must look like you’ve seen a ghost, with your wide eyes and paled face, because the figure backs away immediately.
You relax. It’s the Hunter. Your heart pounds now in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
“Caleb,” you blurt, and immediately cringe at how breathless and relieved you sound.
“Did I scare you?” he offers a warm smile, and you think you imagine the sun’s rays gleaming from behind him despite the darkened skies. You shake your head, though it’s an obvious lie.
His brow immediately knits in concern. “Little Red, why are you out at this time?”
“Oh, I’m visiting my Grandma,” you explain, gesturing to your basket.
“But after those attacks? Who approved this?”
The slight anger in his voice makes you blink in surprise. Caleb was rarely seen around the village, but when he wasn’t residing in his remote cabin in the woods or out hunting, even catching a glimpse at him was a treat for all the ladies in the village. With his broad shoulders and friendly smile, he was always a dream, helping out villagers to the point where he’s a favorite. You know the cobbler discounts him even more than you, but you cannot resent him. Even from the few times he’s aided you has the dreaminess caught up to you, too.
So, the ire in his tone has you blanking. “The constable did. He said the wolf went East, so I’d be fine, but to visit you along the way for my safety.”
Caleb relaxes, clutching the strap that holds the gun over his shoulder in place. “A good thing, to be sure.” He lifts his head up at the sky. Ominous black clouds are rolling in, and you can already feel a few fat droplets on your hood. It fills you with dread. You’ve never liked the rain.
He gestures you to follow him, beginning to move again. “It’s about to pour. You should come in for some time.”
You stay close behind his broad back, face heating. Come into his house? It’s not like you don’t trust him, but the thought makes you a little flustered. But the downpour is heavy enough to soak through your hood now, so you hurriedly catch up to him.
His cabin appears in a little clearing. It’s handsome and sturdy-looking, and the smoke above the chimney makes the home all the more appealing. You find yourself drawn into the warmth of it, even if it does mean you’ll be late to your Grandma’s.
A soft gasp spills from your lips as you enter the dimly lit interior. There are animal trophies all over the walls; mounted heads of large deer, foxes, mountain lions, and even a few bears. You knew he was an experienced hunter, the best in the village, if the rumors were true. But seeing it for yourself is almost astonishing.
“There are so many,” you exhale breathlessly, head tilted upwards to gaze at the animals. The flames flicker and make their glazed, lifeless eyes shine. “How do you manage to hunt this much when you’re so young?”
Caleb shuts the door behind you, smiling almost sheepishly. “I practice a lot. Besides, hunting is almost all I do. Let me take your cloak.”
You repress a shudder as he steps in front of you, gently slipping off your hood and hanging it up. His gaze remains intense on your face a moment too long and you’re quick to turn away so you can breathe again.
“But there are no wolves,” you note, eyebrows knitting together. “Are wolves really so elusive in our village? No one has caught the beast, yet, either.”
He mounts his gun on the wall and pushes a hand through his brown hair, ears pinkening. “I simply haven’t ran into any wolves while hunting. They are rare.”
“Ah.” You perch hesitantly on his loveseat, warmth of the hearth chasing away any chill from the rain. You blink up at him. “So you haven’t seen the beast then. I wonder how many more lives will be taken before this finally ends.”
You don’t mean to sour the mood within your first conversation with Caleb in weeks, but it’s hard to stop your tone from taking a somber lilt. The aching emptiness in your basket where your loafs would usually be weighs the loss of a fellow villager heavily on your conscience.
He’s silent for a long moment, before joining you on the loveseat in a hesitant manner. “The baker…did you know him, personally?”
You nod. “I did. I don’t mean to bring down our spirits, though…”
“Not at all.” Caleb is quick to scoot closer to you, before he falters at his own eagerness. “You can talk to me about anything, Little Red.”
You bite your lip, suddenly wishing you still wore your hood if it meant being shielded from his attentive eyes. “I was curious as to why my bread hadn’t arrived on my doorstep this morning. When I went to visit the baker’s shop, it was completely destroyed.”
He looks wounded. “I’m sorry.”
You shake your head. “It is not as though it’s your fault. Thank you for all you do, protecting the village and helping around. I actually really admire you, to be frank.”
Caleb lights up immediately, a shy smile forming on his handsome face. “Really?”
“Yes,” you laugh, finding the way he perks up to be endearing. It’s at odds with how collected he is when he’s carrying rolls of hay for you or helping tow some of your groceries.
“Oh,” he clears his throat, looking down at his lap. He almost seems awkward even in his own house. His eyes dart to your basket, eyebrows raising. “Does your Grandma enjoy flowers?”
“Yes. But it’s mainly me who enjoys picking them.”
“Cute,” he murmurs so softly to himself that you have to pretend like you don’t hear it, cheeks pinkening. Then Caleb’s skillful hands are collecting the flowers. “Let me tie a bouquet for you.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
A pretty red bow is already securing them together. “There,” his fingers caress the silk reverently. “It’s done.”
“Thank you,” you beam, unable to keep the giddy grin off your face. It’s not often that the village heartthrob gifts you a bow. Until you remind yourself the bow is technically for Grandma and not you. You laugh to yourself as you imagine how wooed Grandma would be when you tell her the bow is from Hunter Caleb himself.
His violet eyes are pinned onto you, enraptured and impossibly soft. Now it’s your turn to clear your throat and shift, embarrassed. Your face is so red that you might be mistaken for the bow’s twin.
“Oh, and you should also take these with you,” Caleb’s standing and bringing over a bucket of his own. Apples, deep crimson and glossy, fill the container. He puts a handful into your basket.
“Thank you,” you gush for what seems like the nth time, feeling more than indebted. It’s a simple offering, but for some reason, the gesture feels deeper than what meets the eye.
“Your favorite,” he hums, bright eyes creased. “I just picked them fresh off the tree just yesterday, and now here you are. What perfect timing.”
You don’t exactly think you’re supposed to be hearing that last part, with the way he sounds giddy when mumbling it to himself, but you feel touched anyways. “That’s very thoughtful,” you say, but something nags at you. “But…how did you guess apples were my favorite?”
Caleb blinks, grin faltering.
“They’re red, and red is your signature color. I just assumed.”
Butterflies flutter pleasantly in your stomach. He’s thought about the little details about you, like what fruit you like. Hope soars through you when you wonder if your one-sided attraction towards him might be more reciprocated than you thought.
“You guessed right,” but then your foot stings, and you’re suddenly reminded of the insect that’d bitten you when you strayed off the path. The bare bridge of your foot is mildly pink and swollen, and you cannot repress a hiss.
Caleb’s on his feet in a second, returning with some salve. “You should have said something earlier. Now, don’t touch it. I need to disinfect it.”
You watch him, a bit panicked, as he kneels in front of you and slides off your dusted black shoes. “It’s quite alright, I won’t ask you to do that—”
“Shh,” he’s already taken your foot in his warm grasp, and you swear your heart might pop out of your chest. “Oh, poor thing. It must burn.”
“You’ve done a great deal for me already,” you blurt, eyes as wide as saucers. Was he just a very generous host, and doted this greatly on all of his guests? But then, you realize, he likely has little visitors this deep in the woods. You almost pity him a little, for he’s obviously very keen on being helpful, and he must not have any opportunity to be unless he’s in the village. You resignedly let him cup your foot in his palm.
“Nonsense. You’ve done far more for me.” He gently rubs the salve on and it immediately cools your inflamed skin.
Huh? You blink, trying to think about what he must be referring to. Your mind comes up blank, but maybe it’s because there’s a ridiculously handsome man at your feet.
“Better?” Caleb’s looking up at you expectantly, and you’re jerked out of your thoughts.
“Yes,” you say, and you’re about to thank him again but hold your tongue lest you sound repetitive.
You expect him to slide your shoe back on. He doesn’t. Instead, he remains kneeling, thumbs stroking your sole so reverently that it tickles.
“It looks like the rain won’t be letting up tonight,” notes Caleb, as the steady pitter patter on the windows echoes throughout the house. The fire flickers dangerously and threatens to delve the entire cabin into darkness, before flaring up again victoriously. You release a breath, a sudden flash of lightning putting you on edge.
“Does that mean I have to stay?” You cannot keep the apprehensiveness from the question. Simply put, staying the night in a man’s house is nothing short of inappropriate. But you know with a beast on the loose and a chaotic storm outside, it’s ironically the only acceptable option.
“I’m afraid so.” Thankfully, Caleb straightens again and releases your foot from his grasp, settling beside you. “You’ll have to visit your Grandma in the morning. It’s dangerous to leave the house now.”
You nod, suddenly self conscious of how his arm brushes yours. He’s so big. His shirt is rolled up to his elbows and reveals a tantalizing stretch of strong, veiny forearms. Your throat dips with a heavy swallow as you realize the implications of spending a night here.
“Caleb,” your eyes are half lidded when you turn to look at him. “Do you ever get…lonely here, so deep in these woods? Or scared?”
He stares at you for a long moment. “No. I often have company.”
“Oh,” you can only say, off guard. What kind of company could he possibly have out here? A lady?
“The animals,” he clarifies with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “As for being scared…I can protect myself.”
Thunder cracks like a whip, and you jump. Caleb notices, eyebrows knitting together.
“And you, Little Red?” Lightning flashes again, illuminating his clenched jaw for only a split second. Another roll of thunder almost drowns out his next words. “What are you scared of?”
The fire is dying out slowly now, embers glowing faintly in the darkened cabin. “Storms,” you admit, after a second of considering if you should tell him. “I’m scared of thunderstorms. And…wolves.”
His eyes narrow. “Wolves.” He places his palm against your back when you flinch at the wailing wind outside. The heat of it is searing even through your shirt. “Have you ever…seen one?”
You lick your lips, throat tightening. It was seemingly a harmless question on the surface, one villagers would whisper to each other like folktales. But the way he asked it was as if he was digging for something. Like he knew.
You shake your head and spit out the lie you’ve told yourself for almost a year. “No.”
Only your voice quivers on the one word under the violet stare latched onto your face. His next words are like claws shredding your thinly-veiled lie to pieces. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” your reply is just as insistent and breathy as his own. Your chest tightens. Why was he questioning you like this? Did he find out?
Caleb stares at you for a long moment, and you hold your breath. He doesn’t appear accusing, just… knowing.
“Alright,” he accepts, and your body slumps slightly in relief. You’re about to change the topic when his nose suddenly brushes your temple.
“What scares you about wolves?” He rasps into your hair, slowly nuzzling his cheek against your head. You freeze, cheeks burning. He sounds indulgent and teasing, and it has you squeezing your thighs together.
“Their claws,” you stammer, butterflies exploding in your abdomen when you hear him inhale.
“Their hands?” Caleb’s lips brush the shell of your ear and all your nerves feel as if they’ve been shocked. A whimper spills from your lips. His other hand raises to slide from your shoulder to your forearm, eliciting goosebumps in its wake.
“Yes,” you blink dazedly. He’s so close, practically on top of you on this loveseat. When did he move closer? What was he doing? The warmth seeping from his body is enough to remind you that this is against the rules. Grandma would be mortified if she saw you letting him touch you like this. Yet, instead of shame, you only feel exhilaration.
“And their teeth, and jaws,” you add, shivering when his lips move to your cheek, grazing the soft flesh.
“Their mouths,” he clarifies, and you nod again, hands clutching the edge of the cushion you sit on. The warmth of want spreads through you so quickly you don’t think you can hold back anymore. You turn your head slightly, meeting his half-lidded gaze, and let your lips brush his.
Caleb reels back as if burned.
You stare at him as he lifts himself off of you slightly and turns to look out the window, up at the cloudy sky barely illuminated by the moon, where thunder clouds roll out quickly towards the east. Your mouth goes dry when he finally turns to look at you. With pity.
“I apologize, I seem to have misunderstood,” you babble, lip trembling with humiliation. “Uh, I shouldn’t have…that you wanted me.”
Your heart clenches with every stuttered word and you move to get up off the loveseat. You don’t get far before a hand is cupping your face and Caleb slots his lips over yours.
“How could you think,” chu, “that I don’t want you?”
You don’t get a chance to even reply before he’s kissing you again, suckling and licking and biting into your mouth with a fervor that leaves you breathless. You remain frozen for a moment, before kissing back meekly, your own passion a flame compared to his ravenous fire.
“I’ve been holding back for so long, worried I’d scare you,” Caleb pants as he drags his tongue across your bottom lip. His lips connect with yours over and over again, until you’re both dizzy and dazed with lust, as if he cannot bear to part for even a second.
“Caleb,” you can only say, blinking past the fog of arousal.
“Hah, you smell so good,” he blurts, sniffing against your neck. “Need to taste.”
You nod along, and he drops to his knees instantly. Caleb gazes up at you, eyes drinking up the sight of you like this. His large palms make you shiver when they slide under your skirt, skimming your soft thighs and slowly slipping off your panties. A sigh escapes him as he watches the way your arousal clings to the fabric, and he licks his lips.
Then he’s bunching up your skirt around your hips and burying his face against your pussy.
You cry out, clutching the edge of the loveseat underneath you for purchase, as Caleb eats at you like you’re his favorite meal. His slimy tongue curls again and again round your hole, before he presses the flat of it wholly against your clit, the rough buds against your slippery folds creating a friction so delicious you moan.
His lips latch onto your clit and suck cruelly like it’s hard candy, violet eyes peering at you underneath his dark lashes. Your legs kick out, feet flexing as you attempt to not scream at the pleasure.
He’s drooling, chin shiny with your wetness and his own saliva. He grinds his nose against the sticky folds and inhales, eyes rolling black in bliss. “Fuck, y’smell so good,” he rumbles against your pussy.
You flush bright red, cunt fluttering against his tongue.
Caleb makes a keening sort of sound, like a whine. You glance down at the man between your legs, vision foggy with pleasure. It’s almost hypnotic, the way he eagerly sucks and laps at your cunt, the hot pleasure making your toes curl and legs tremble over his shoulders. The fuzziness almost makes you miss the sharp glint of his canines catching under the moonlight.
Almost.
You blink, eyebrows furrowing in mild confusion, but all thoughts turn to mush when his tongue pushes past that tight ring of muscle, delving into your pussy and nudging your walls with a lewd squelch.
You wail, hands flying down to tangle in his brown locks. Your hips move on their own until you’re practically grinding down on his face. Caleb moans appreciatively against your clit, and you fist his hair tighter.
His hair is just as silky and soft underneath your fingers as you’d imagined. Then something twitches in your grip.
You drag your gaze downwards, gently unfurling your hands. At first you think the odd shape on his head is the result of you messing up his hair. But then you look closer, and see the pointy, unmistakable silhouette of ears. Animal-like ears.
Caleb doesn’t notice your growing panic, lost in the taste of you, eyes shut with bliss. All the while, your pleasure dissolves into a heavy tightness in your chest. There’s a flurry of movement just behind his kneeling figure, swaying back and forth animatedly— a tail.
A gasp is wrenched from your throat, and your foot pushes at his shoulder. The moonlight streaks brightly into the cabin, spilling past the window panes. It illuminates the predator between your legs like a warning.
Caleb’s eyes snap to yours at the nudge, dark and hungry. He blinks and his gaze rounds, probably at the shell-shocked expression you wear.
“What’s wrong?” He breathes. You stay silent, barely even breathing.
His hands dart to hover over his head. You watch as an expression of horrid realization dawns on his face, and it’s enough of an indicator that this is real.
You cry out, crawling backwards on the loveseat, clumsily trapping yourself in the nook. Your legs kick out in warning when he reaches for you.
“Little Red,” he pants, lovesick smile twisting his face. It’s supposed to be reassuring, but it looks hysterical. “It’s not— let me explain.”
“Don’t kill me,” you hiccup, voice seizing.
“Baby, never,” Caleb coos, eyebrows knitting together. “I’d never hurt you, my love.”
The passionate words just serve to make you more unsettled, and you shuffle back more, not taking your eyes off him for a second. “Did you…lure me here, to—”
“No, no, I’m sorry,” he rasps, fluffy ears pinned down to his head. His expression drops into a sullen one, lips still glossy with your arousal tugging downwards into a pout. You snap your thighs shut, cunt still uncomfortably damp. “I never wanted you to find out like this. I didn’t want to lie, I just…”
Your eyes dart to the door.
“I did it all for you!” Caleb blurts, chest heaving. His pupils are blown so wide, his eyes are nearly black. They glossily reflect the full moon beaming through the window. “It’s all for you. The—that shepherd, he was planning to hurt you. If you knew why he kept luring you to his ranch…” His tone trails off darkly and his fists clench.
“And, the man who ran that shop, that scum said all those disgusting things to you. I couldn’t stand the idea of his filth touching you, even in words. The baker, he’d deliver your goods late at night, as an excuse to try and peek through your windows and watch you.” He’s rambling so fast you can barely register his words. His breathing gets heavier with every sentence, and his fluffy tail sweeps against the floor anxiously.
“And how do you know all that?” You question breathlessly, head spinning.
Caleb gapes, mouth dropping as he attempts to formulate a response. “Well, I— I…I follow you sometimes, just to—”
“Why?” You cry.
“You know why,” Caleb crawls closer, and despite your yelp of protest, clutches your leg again. He only caresses your skin, but one glance at his dauntingly sharp fingernails has you freezing again. “That night. I know you remember, honey.”
The night that you’ve been trying to forget, that you’ve held against yourself for so long. Maybe you shouldn’t have left the house at all, but the whimpers just outside your window were too loud to ignore. Lying there, curled up against a tree, was a figure of some sort. You thought it an animal, with its fur and keening sounds, yet it was too dark, and the creature was covered in too much mud, for you to make out what it could be. All you could sense was that it was different, and wrongly large.
“Apples,” a breath escapes him, half laugh and half sigh, as if he’s recounting his favorite memory and not one of a near death experience. “You brought me a basket of apples, and said, ‘Here, I don’t have anything else in my home, as the market is tomorrow. But apples are very healthy. Eat them and you’ll feel better.’”
You swallow thickly, staring at him as he recites you word for word.
“One of the ranchers had gotten me good, bullet straight in my chest. I was alone and new to my…transformations, so I couldn’t help devouring all his sheep. I barely managed to flee a mile before collapsing.” Caleb reverently cups your leg with both hands, eyes crinkling as he continues. “But then, like an angel, you came. You offered your kindness, even to an animal like me. Even in my state, I took one look at your red hood and vowed to keep you safe.”
A choked sound escapes you. You’d suspected the beast you’d helped to be the same to later wreak havoc on your town, but for it to be a man? Caleb?
“I love you,” he continues, shifting a bit on his knees. The new position reveals the outline of his arousal pressing needily through his pants, and your stomach flips. “I love you, I love you, I love you—”
A flush burns your cheeks. “Caleb—”
“Please don’t leave, it’s dangerous outside,” he finishes quietly, forehead resting to your knee.
You sit in silence for what feels like eternity, the only sound being the howling wind and Caleb’s ragged breath against your skin. Then your hand drifts low, cupping his ear and petting the velvet fur.
His breath hitches, watery puppy-eyes raising to stare at you. He tilts his head into your touch, lips parting.
“I won’t leave,” you decide with so much certainty it shocks even yourself.
Caleb blinks, before his face splits into a blinding smile, sharp canines poking past his lips. “You…you’ll stay?”
You nod, and he hesitantly straightens, perching next to you. “Thank you,” he leans over you, face looming. “Thank you—”
You kiss him again, and he returns it eagerly, teeth grazing your sensitive lips before licking over it soothingly. His tail thumps rapidly against your leg, hands squeezing every bit of flesh they find. You squeal as he grinds into you seemingly unconsciously, the friction of his clothed erection nudging your clit through your skirt making you cream.
“Hahh, Little Red,” he whines, burying his face in the crook of your neck and inhaling. He lets out another sound, tongue laving across your throat, before his teeth nip your skin. “You smell, and taste…so good.”
Your legs wrap around his waist, and your skirt bunches up at your hips, baring your bare cunt to his movements. His rough trousers grind against your pussy deliciously, smearing your arousal on his clothes lewdly. It’s like he can’t choose; Caleb nips and sucks at your neck, then peppers your face in gentle kisses, before returning to your lips again in a kiss so messy you’d think him an entirely different person.
“Caleb,” your needy whine rivals his own, and your hands trail lower, sliding under his shirt. “I need you, please!”
“P-poor thing,” he tuts, wasting no time in tugging off his shirt. Your eyes rave him greedily, fingers caress down the toned expanse of his abdomen, lingering suggestively near his happy trail. Caleb’s chest heaves with a shudder. “I, ah, left you all needy, huh?”
His hands slips under your skirt and between your thighs, thumb dragging through your wet slit, a teasing touch that makes your legs jerk. “Don’t worry. Caleb will take care of you.”
The clink of his belt buckle sends a shiver of delight up your spine. A flush glows on his cheeks as you stare down at his red, needy cock, which jerks at your attention. Caleb’s abs clench when your soft, small hand wraps around the head, thumbing the weeping tip gently.
“Fuck,” he gasps, eyebrows knitting together. “Nghh! Don’t do that, I’m gonna cum—”
“Then cum,” you giggle, though it’s hard to tease him when your thighs press together eagerly at the sight of him this pathetic.
“No,” he huffs*,* low and sharp, hiking your leg over his shoulder. “All my cum, hah, needs to go inside you. Need to fill this pussy up, wanna breed you,” Caleb babbles, sharpened canine biting his lip as he stares down at your naked folds.
You inhale, humorous disposition melting into arousal.
Caleb taps his tip against your clit with a lewd click, and you mewl at the slight stimulation. He glides his veiny shaft against your swollen folds, rubbing the bundle of nerves, smearing your sticky arousal all over him.
His shroomy head finally nudges the entrance of your pussy, and you tense, clenching around nothing. Caleb coos, lips skimming your cheekbone.
“Big stretch, yeah?” You nod along, nails already digging crescent moons into his back. He pushes past the tight ring of muscle, and you immediately seize up at the burning stretch, gasping.
“Shit, hah, just relax, angel,” he grits, jaw slacking at the feel of your warm walls gripping him, eyebrows drawn together in bliss. “Fuck, baby, gonna need you to let me in.”
You take a breath, stomach heaving, as he slips in with a pop. He feeds you more, and more yet. Just when you think he’s done, cock pressing so snugly inside you, he pushes in yet another inch, bottoming out.
Slow, leisurely rocks of his hips are quickening until he’s already pounding deep into you, pulling all the way out before bottoming into you with a force that has you squealing. His pelvis slams into your thighs with wet plaps, stinging the flesh pink.
Your pussy flutters and sucks him in greedily, the way he shoves at your g-spot sparking white-hot tingles through your lower belly. It’s hard to control your pitched whimpers, swollen lips parting as you struggle to steady your breathing.
Caleb looks gone, eyes glazed and fixated on your face only. Pants and groans spill from his parted lips like liquor, drunk entirely on your pussy.
Then, like he wasn’t deep enough already— he grabs your other leg and hikes it over his shoulder, folding you into a cruel mating press.
“Cay-leb!” You hiccup at the new angle, tears dotting your lashes as his cock pushes impossibly deeper, drilling into your cervix so hard you see stars.
“It would drive me insane,” he growls against your ear, before nipping the shell, “how you’d smell like everyone else.”
“Now, you smell like me. Mine,” Caleb’s hips pick up, and you can only lay there pliantly, toes curling as his gooey tip rams into your g-spot again and again. “My cute little mate.”
The croon goes straight to your head and you blink fuzzily, a fresh wave of heat flooding your cheeks. “Fuck, you’re so cute, hugging me so snugly,” Caleb presses a sweet kiss to your lips, before his mouth latches to your neck again, and you whine weakly as he sucks yet another possessive mark onto your skin. “Wanna keep you here forever. In these woods, where no one can touch you again.”
The words should ignite fear in you, especially coming from the beast you’ve feared for so long now— but you can only feel a wanton sort of desire.
“Yes,” you blurt, hands running through his messy locks as you rest your forehead against yours. “Nghh! Yes, Caleb, I’m yours.”
Caleb’s ruthless pace doesn’t slow, even as he blinks slowly and then beams, tail swishing happily behind him. “Yeah, hah,” he dots kisses across your nose, gentle contrast to the lewd way his cock batters your poor pussy into a sticky mess, “knew we were fated. You’re my, mm, perfect mate. My angel.”
His cock thrusts in and out of you so fast, kissing your nerves until a white-hot pleasure mounts to a peak. Your cunt forms a frothy ring around him, stretched so tightly over his cock, like it’s trying to suck him in and never let go.
“I’m gonna cum,” you pant, hands batting at his abs. “Please—”
As soon as his fingers stray down to your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud with tight circles, you cum, clenching hard around Caleb’s cock, soaking him with your arousal. Your thighs quake over his shoulders as he thrusts once, twice— before pressing deep in you and cumming, hot essence flooding your walls.
“Ah,” Caleb gasps and whines, eyes widening for a fraction at the way your pussy flutters around his spent cock. His hips stutter and he collapses lightly on top of you, nuzzling tiredly into your hair.
You both lay there for minutes, panting and sweaty. Caleb whines lightly and presses his nose to your skin again, arms banded around your body till he’s so tightly pressed to you, you’d think he’s trying to fuse you together.
He’s still inside you, but neither of you complain about the wet sticky mess between you two just yet, content to lay there in each other’s arms.
Caleb lifts his head and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, rousing you from your slight sleepiness. “Little Red. We’ll have to go to your Grandma’s tomorrow morning, then.”
A pang of guilt hits you when you remember your initial purpose of loitering in these woods in the first place. “Yes. Of course.” You pause. “We?”
He shuffles a bit on top of you, attempting to hide his flushed face against your breast. “Well… I thought I’d go with you.”
“Why?” You tug playfully at his ear and he melts instantly, relenting.
“So you can introduce me.”
“Introduce you?” You cast one look at Caleb’s sheepish expression and smile fondly.
“Yes, I will. I’ll introduce you as my boyfriend.”
Caleb’s face splits into a grin and his tail thumps against the cushions at that, and as he’s on you again, peppering ticklish kisses across your neck, your giggles ring out in the warm cabin.
the concept of caleb and the hunger games… aka where it all goes downhill from the moment you get reaped for the games.
caleb, who has to be stopped from volunteering to go into the games alongside you when your name is reaped. in your district, it was almost certainly a death sentence, but at that moment he thinks he would rather die by your side, than live without you.
caleb, who makes you promise him that you will make it back to him. he can’t lose you, not like this. there are too many things unspoken between you, lost to the wind as he watches the train pull away from your district.
caleb, who can’t tear his eyes from the screen for even a single moment as he watches the clock countdown. underneath his breath, he’s whispering for you to run—far away from what he knows is an inevitable bloodbath. he holds the necklace you gave him close to his heart, and prays he does not see you amongst the fallen.
caleb, who continues to watch the games closely at every waking minute, utterly unmoving from his spot. it’s as if he took his eyes off you, you would die. he grieves with you, when you are forced to take the life of an ally—but a part of him is relieved, you’re one person closer to victory.
but the path to victory is no easy road. you’re down to the final four—but you’re no extraordinary person, only having made it this far out of sheer luck, and you know you cannot beat any of the remaining three tributes in a fight. caleb thinks, you’re going to need a miracle.
you have only your brains to work with—so you pull a stunt. you take the gamble, and luck just happened to be on your side. you’ve definitely pissed off the capitol though, made them look like fools on live television. they had always craved a bloodied showdown, to showcase the true animalistic nature of the districts. but in that moment you didn’t care, except that you would be going home.
caleb, who finally lets go of the breath he had been holding, when they announce you the victor of the hunger games.
caleb, who is the first person to greet you the moment you step off the train back in your district. there’s no words left that needed to be spoken—you had kissed him right then and there. because everything you had done, was to get back to him.
but you are not able to celebrate for long. the fires of rebellion have been on the rise for the past years, and you’ve all but fanned the flames in your defiant little stunt.
caleb, whose very life is threatened, when the president pays you a visit—to fix what you have started. for the sake of the nation, and all the lives you value. you would not be quick to forget who truly holds all the power in this world.
caleb, who suggests running away with you. somewhere safe, where not a single soul could touch you. he paints a picture of a life found in fairytales and you can only laugh hopelessly—for such a place does not exist in this world. nowhere is safe from the capitol’s grasp, and you would forever have a target upon your back.
because when war descends, you stand with everything to lose. you are yet a lucky survivor again, in the bombed remains of your district, but it is only the beginning of the atrocities the capitol will commit—to destroy you, and everyone else among this rebellion.
they take caleb, pull his dying body from the wreckage before you can, leaving you with nothing but the necklace you had given to him all those years ago. and they’ll kill him over and over, until all you have left is only a memory of him.
you see his face on the grainy television screen back at the base, amongst the war propaganda spread by the capitol. you want to be relieved that he’s alive, but something’s changed. the eyes that stare at you through the screen are so empty, like an abyss that threatens to swallow you whole.
but caleb, who despite everything, holds out for you. his torturers continue to chip away at what remains of his memory and sanity—he’s long forgotten his own birthday, the feeling of the sun against his skin, but he hasn’t forgotten you. not ever. they wouldn’t take you from him again. he makes you his sole fixation.
caleb, who is finally rescued at last—except he is nothing like the caleb you once knew.
꩜ – SOLIVAN BRUGMANSIA :: what happens when you put sol in the friendzone?
1/2 .ᐟ.ᐟ – (18+) :: content – tkatb sol x gn!reader, yandere, obsessive/possessive dynamics, toxicity, dubcon/non-con, stalking, implied somnophilia
friendzoned!sol who is too sweet about the fact that you’d told him you weren’t ready and that you just wanted to be friends, just until you figure out how it is you feel exactly. even when he’d poured his heart and soul out into his confession.
in fact, sol liked to think he was barely heartbroken — sure, he wanted you badly, wanted to spend every waking hour holding you hand and cooking you meals and cuddling you to sleep, but he also just wanted you period.
and this wasn’t technically a no. it’s just a maybe. and for you? sol was nothing but absolutely patient.
friendzoned!sol who quickly learns that he hates being hyper-aware of where he stands, which is about 500 light years too far from where he really wants to stand. he’s fucking patient. he’s sweet. he never oversteps, hugs you and lets you go the minute you loosen up, buys you food and walks you home like a good friend. but he hates how he has no right to hate when you’re not with him.
when you’re staring at anyone else. sol thinks those eyes are his.
friendzoned!sol who needs you to run to him when no one else understands you — because no one else does. so he’s always waiting by his phone, preparing your favorite snacks for when you call him crying, asking him to come over because you were just so alone. he’s never going to make you wait any longer than five minutes; sol is at your doorstep before you can cry or bury your face into anything (or anyone) else.
friendzoned!sol hates himself for how selfish he is. in his defense, you’re torturing him without even realizing it; you’ve become so affectionate ever since you’d told him you just want to be friends right now, and part of him thinks it’s because you feel guilty. in a way, it’s endearing; you’ve always been too sweet, too kind to him. but whenever you hug him, whenever your hair tickles the skin of his neck or your eyes beam back at him, he loses focus.
he’ll inhale lungfuls of your perfume when you’re crying into his shoulder, as if trying to memorize the scent; he’ll offer you his sweaters and his t-shirts when you’re cold because he cares (and wants people to know who you really belong to). he’ll steal a kiss from your cheek when you’re upset under the guise of comforting you.
sol knows it’s selfish, especially when you’re so gentle, allowing yourself to be so vulnerable around him — but if he can’t have you yet, he’ll settle. he’ll be the puppy lapping at whatever scraps you graciously give him.
friendzoned!sol, who grows braver, playing around with the line seperating friendship with something else, as you learn to trust him more.
he sees the way you seem to smile more when he comes to sit with you. when he invites you to skip classes with him. when he’s the one staying with you until you fall asleep after walking you back to your apartment. and he’s starting to say more — you deserve to know you’re beautiful, deserve to be drawn in your focused stupor in the classroom, or in the dark when you’re asleep and your hair is all tangled up.
you deserve to be needed, not wanted. and sol needs you. badly. even if you’ll only have him as a friend (for now!)
friendzoned!sol, who’s more than friends with you for a few hours at a time; that is, when you’re asleep. he’s not just your fucking friend, not when his fingertips are cradling your cheeks as you snore quietly, tracing your jawline like you’re made of porcelain.
sol can’t possibly be just your friend when he’s the one in bed next to you every night — even when you don’t realize it.
even when you’re out cold. he wishes he didn’t have to knock you out to finally be your lover, but again, he’s settling for what he’ll get.
friendzoned!sol, who dreams of being more as he presses his nose into the crook of your neck and inhales. as he listens to the soft sound of your breathing — inhale, exhale — as if it’s gospel. as he presses soft, open-mouthed kisses to the space between your jawline and your neck, gripping your waist tight with his fingertips to ground himself.
“fuck,” sol all but whimpers, engulfed in your aroma. “haah. you smell perfect. my best friend.”
it’s all your fault, really. how could sol just be your friend when you’re everything he’s ever wanted – good enough to eat –always pressed against him so delectably like a missing puzzle piece?
he’s greedy as he tugs your resting frame closer into his chest, unwrapping the sheets gently and revealing your collarbone beneath your blanket. sol’s breath hitches.
his head dips down, tongue licking a steady stripe, tracing the shape of your bones, all the way up to your lips. and then he’s sucking at your mouth, moaning at the way you hum groggily without stirring awake.
would you dream of him? would you make those sounds for him and only him?
fuck.
friendzoned!sol who’ll always be your friend.
who’ll always be sweet on you, who’ll be at your beck and call as long as you have the ability to tell him. and since he’s just such a good friend, he’ll always be there to tuck you back into your blanket and press soft kisses to your forehead as he lets you drift back into deeper sleep. he’ll always make sure he’s as quiet as possible when he’s climbing back out of your window.
friendzoned!sol, who’s just your friend — until you realize that you always have been and always will be only his.
@ ttakdoll, 2026
got sidetracked writing something else so here's a short for my beautiful boy !
Some may find it hard to believe, but if Zayne sees you lying on your stomach with your ass out and exposed? He's found his perfect pillow.
He's barely able to keep his eyes open, it's a miracle he was able to drive, park, and undress as much as he has before entering your shared bedroom. Just to find you sprawled on top of the blankets, working on your laptop, a t-shirt on and a cheeky pair of lace panties riding up your cheeks and... god has your ass never looked so soft.
"Z, you're home! How was your-oh!" You yelp, half turned just to see him flop head first into your ass. Your face burns at the sight, the laughter that bubbles out of you can't be helped. "Long day?" Zayne doesn't respond for a moment, getting comfortable as his eyes shut and he rests his head comfortably on the plush of your ass cheeks.
Your oh-so-wonderful university professor decides to give everyone in class a group project! Who will be your partner in this Choose Your Own Adventure?
LADS Boys x Reader
Choose Your Own Adventure, College AU
🔗 READ/PLAY HERE
🎮 interactive fanfic "Project: Love" by dimsum
📖 Episode 1 of ?
synopsis: After six months of secretly dating, your first sleepover with Megumi goes terribly wrong when his parents come home unexpectedly, forcing the two of you to finally reveal your relationship.
a/n: a small fluffy one shot for everyone who has been reading my yuta series! something light for the heart <3 patreon read it first :)
patreon|kofi
You rang the doorbell of your boyfriend's house, your duffel bag hanging loosely from your shoulder as snow drifted softly around you. The neighborhood was quiet, the kind of silence that only came with winter evenings, and nerves twisted in your stomach as you glanced around for any sign of his parents.
A moment later, the front door opened.
Megumi stood in the doorway, his usual sleepy expression brightening the instant he saw you. A cold breeze swept past him as he stepped outside, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.
"Hey," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Come in. It's freezing out here."
You quickly stepped inside, grateful for the warmth that wrapped around you the moment the door shut behind you.
"Are you sure this is okay?" you asked, adjusting the strap of your bag.
Megumi had invited you over for a movie night, and maybe even to spend the night if things worked out. It all depended on whether his parents had already left for the weekend.
Though, if you were being honest, they probably wouldn't have minded either way. From what little Megumi had told you about his dad, he seemed pretty laid-back. At least, that was what you hoped as your nerves continued to buzz beneath your skin.
"Yeah, my dad's away at some gambling tournament, and my mom went with him."
"What about your sister?"
Megumi scratched the back of his neck. "I think she's staying with a friend this weekend..."
"You think?" Your expression fell. "I thought you said you had the place to yourself."
"I do," he said quickly, giving you a reassuring look. "Trust me."
"Okay," you replied softly, though a hint of uncertainty lingered in your voice.
You and Megumi had been sneaking around for the past six months. Neither of your families knew about your relationship, and for now, both of you preferred to keep it that way. It was easier for everyone's sanity.
Your dad was incredibly strict, despite the fact that you were twenty years old and more than old enough to make your own decisions about dating. Megumi's reasons were different. He simply wasn't ready to introduce you to his family yet, especially not his father.
So the two of you had fallen into a routine, carefully planning weekends and stolen afternoons around empty houses, quiet schedules, and moments when no one would ask questions. It wasn't ideal, but for now, it was enough.
"Come on, let's drop your bag off in my room."
Megumi took your duffel bag from your shoulder and led you upstairs. His room was dim and cozy, the soft glow of a lamp on his desk casting warm light across the space. He set your bag down carefully in the corner before turning back to you.
"Do you need anything out of it?" he asked.
You shook your head, already making yourself comfortable on his bed.
Normally, the two of you would have claimed the entire house by now. The living room would be covered in blankets and pillows, the kitchen thoroughly raided for snacks and drinks. But tonight felt different. Megumi seemed unusually tense, and you could tell he wasn't entirely confident about where his family was, or when they might come back.
"Can we watch a movie?" you asked, hoping to ease some of the nervous energy hanging in the air.
"Yeah."
Megumi walked over to his desk and switched off the lamp, leaving the room illuminated only by the television screen. You grabbed the remote and scrolled through the options, eventually landing on the one movie you could watch a hundred times and never get tired of.
Shrek.
Megumi climbed onto the bed beside you, pulling the blankets over both of you. He settled in comfortably, draping an arm around your shoulders and gently tugging you closer until you were tucked against his chest.
For a moment, all the nerves, secrecy, and uncertainty melted away, replaced by the familiar comfort of being with him.
You curl up into a ball next to him, the warmth of his body felt good against your cold skin. Just standing in the snow for a minute almost froze you into a statue.
"You're freezing," Megumi murmured, shifting slightly beneath the blankets.
"That's exactly why I'm putting my feet on your legs," you said with a laugh, nudging them against him. "They're nice and warm, so stop trying to escape."
Megumi let out a soft laugh but didn't say anything else. You relaxed further against him, feeling his warmth seep through the blankets. After a moment, he rested his head gently against yours.
The room fell into a comfortable silence, Shrek playing softly in the background as the two of you fought against sleep.
It was already two in the morning. Sneaking out this late was the only way you could see Megumi without raising suspicion at home. And tonight was different; it would be the first time you ever spent the night with him.
Despite the secrecy, despite the nerves that still lingered in the back of your mind, you couldn't help but smile. Curled up in his arms, with the glow of the television flickering across the room, this felt like exactly where you wanted to be.
—------
The sharp slam of a door jolted you awake. Your eyes immediately darted toward Megumi, but he didn't seem bothered in the slightest. Still fast asleep, he remained sprawled beside you, breathing softly. You glanced at the alarm clock sitting on his desk.
4:30 a.m.
Only a few hours had passed since the two of you had drifted off to sleep. You sat up slightly, holding your breath as you waited for another sound.
Nothing.
A quiet sigh escaped your lips. Maybe it was just the house settling. Maybe the wind had caught something outside. Slowly, you sank back beneath the blankets and nestled against Megumi once more. He still hadn't moved an inch, his features relaxed and peaceful in sleep. A few strands of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and the faint sound of his soft snores filled the silence.
A small smile tugged at your lips as you watched him.
For someone who always seemed so guarded and serious, he looked completely different like this, calm, vulnerable, and utterly at ease. And for a moment, despite the secrecy and the nerves that had followed you all evening, everything felt perfectly safe.
"Megumi, we're rich!"
Your eyes widened as the loudest, most enthusiastic scream you'd ever heard echoed through the house. Beside you, Megumi shot upright in bed. Even in the darkness, you could see the panic flash across his face.
"That's my dad," he said groggily, running a hand through his messy hair. Under different circumstances, you would have thought his sleepy voice was incredibly attractive.
Instead, your stomach dropped.
"Why are they home?"
"I don't know." Megumi threw the blankets aside and planted his feet on the floor, hurrying toward his bedroom door. He reached for the lock, twisting it into place.
"Should I hide?" you whispered frantically, yanking the blanket over your head as if it could somehow make you invisible.
Megumi had never spoken much about his father, but whenever he did, there was always bitterness in his voice, as though even saying his name left a bad taste in his mouth.
"No," Megumi said quickly, glancing back at you. "My mom might make him go straight to bed. Don't worry."
Easy for him to say.
You were currently in his bed, at four-thirty in the morning, with his parents unexpectedly home downstairs.
Worrying was all you could do.
"Isn't this against your clan's rules or something?" you whispered frantically. "You know, having a girl over—in your bed, who isn't your wife?"
Megumi rolled his eyes despite the tension. "Fuck the clan rules," he muttered. "I'm more worried about your dad finding out."
You let out a groan, but before you could respond, a sharp knock echoed through the room.
"Megumi? Open up."
Your stomach dropped. Panic surged through you as you threw the blankets aside and scrambled toward his closet, determined to hide yourself somewhere, anywhere.
Unfortunately, you weren't fast enough.
The door clicked open.
The overhead light flickered on, and Megumi's father stepped inside.
You froze mid-step.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with raven hair and a presence that seemed to fill the entire room, he looked between you and his son, whose hands were currently occupied trying—and failing—to shove your duffel bag out of sight.
Silence stretched for a beat.
Then the man tilted his head slightly.
"Who's the woman?" he asked coolly.
You swallowed hard, suddenly forgetting how to breathe. Megumi had never said much about his father, but standing in front of him now, you understood exactly why.
Megumi groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. "A friend."
One of Toji's eyebrows lifted, amusement creeping onto his features. "A lady friend?"
Straightening your back, you gathered what little courage you had left and offered a nervous smile. "Hi, I'm Y/N," you said quietly. "I didn't mean to intrude."
Toji looked at you for a moment before glancing back at his son, the smirk on his face growing wider. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
"Fun?" Megumi's mother appeared in the doorway, arms crossed as she shot her husband an unimpressed look. "Nothing about this is going to be fun. Leave them alone, Toji, and go to bed."
She sighed, rubbing at her temple. "They're not doing anything wrong."
Toji folded his arms over his chest. "Clearly, he has a guest in our home that we don't know about."
"Clearly," she shot back, "you haven't noticed him sneaking her in for months now."
Silence.
Megumi stiffened.
You felt your soul leave your body.
Toji blinked. "Months?"
Megumi groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. "Mom."
"What?" she said innocently. "Did you think I wouldn't notice an extra pair of shoes by the door? Or the snacks disappearing twice as fast? Or the fact that my son suddenly started using cologne?"
"Please stop talking."
A grin spread across Toji's face as realization settled in.
"So you've had a girlfriend this whole time?" he said, sounding far too entertained. "And here I thought you were destined to be alone forever."
Megumi looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
Meanwhile, you stood frozen in place, wondering if it was too late to climb out the window.
Megumi's mother finally smiled at you, her expression much softer.
"Y/N, right? Don't mind him," she said, jerking her thumb toward Toji. "He's just excited because this is the first girl Megumi has ever brought home."
"Mom," Megumi deadpanned, "if you say one more thing, I'm moving out."
Toji laughed. "Relax, kid. I'm just happy to know you're capable of romance."
"Go to bed," Megumi muttered.
"After I get her side of the story," Toji replied with a smirk.
Megumi let out a long sigh. This was, without question, the worst possible way for his parents to find out about his girlfriend.
"I-I don't think I have a side," you admitted nervously, clasping your hands together.
Megumi's mother smiled warmly, her expression softening.
"That's okay," she said. "It's four-something in the morning, and Toji just barged in and woke the two of you up. You're allowed to be a little speechless."
Toji scoffed dramatically. "Barged in? This is my house."
"And that's their room right now," she shot back. "At least have the decency to knock and wait for an answer."
"I did knock."
"You waited half a second."
"It was a very generous half second."
Megumi groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Can everyone please stop talking?"
His mother laughed softly before turning back to you.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. You're not in trouble. If Megumi likes you enough to sneak you in for six months, then you're probably a good person."
"Mom."
"What? I'm being nice."
"You're making this worse."
Toji grinned, clearly enjoying his son's misery.
"So," he said, leaning against the doorframe, "are we finally getting introduced to the girl who's been stealing all our snacks?"
Heat rushed to your cheeks.
Megumi looked ready to throw himself out the nearest window.
"I hate this family," he muttered.
His mother patted Toji's shoulder. "Congratulations. You've officially embarrassed your son enough for one night. Now come on."
Toji sighed dramatically. "Fine. But I'm expecting a proper introduction over breakfast."
The second they stepped out of the room and closed the door behind them, Megumi flopped back onto the bed with a defeated groan.
“you’re so— you’re so tight. i’m not going to fit, pipsqueak. it’s okay. we can try again another—”
in one ear, out the other. paying caleb's pleading voice no mind, you sink down on him inch by inch, relishing the stretch but quickly growing impatient. beneath you, he throws his head back into the pillows, overwhelmed by the sheer warmth of you.
“please. please. you’re squeezin’ the life outta me.” as if to prove his point, he starts to slur his words. “i dunno if i can take it.”
“you can.” you dig your nails into his hip bones. “you will. how much time did we waste, dancing around our instincts? we’ve both wanted this for so long—it’s only right that we take everything the other has to give.”
“then…can we take a break, at least? what if you hurt yourself? it can’t— it can’t be easy.” his mouth falls open, a whimper escaping as you swivel your hips trying to work your way to his base. “you’re so small. too damn small.”
“maybe you're too big. i like it, though. and once i fit you all the way in, i’ll love it.”
the rapid swell of his length isn’t making this any easier. every time you make progress trying to take him, he only grows even larger inside you.
“you’re the one who begged for this earlier. i want it, too. but you have to help me—i can’t do it on my own, caleb. you've always helped me, haven't you? always been there to look out for me. can’t you do it again?”
swallowing thickly, he admires you through half-lidded eyes. when you push your lips into a pout, he nods slowly. giving in like he always does.
nerves alight, he wills his hips to drive three feeble thrusts into your heat. it’s a rare show of weakness from him, but even his lacking efforts make you slide farther down.
of course, your mixed arousal dribbling down his length does most of the heavy lifting.
“more,” you urge. “more. we’re almost there.”
“i can’t.” he’s almost delirious now. “so, so tight. feel like i can’t breathe.”
“do it. you don’t want to disappoint me, do you? if you do, you might not get the chance to make it up to me.”
“no…no.” ardent as it is, his refusal is soft. he’s crashing quickly, devoting his waning energy to blinking the tears out of his eyes rather than projecting his voice. “never.” tensing for a moment, he gathers all his strength and rolls his hips, slow and deep, into your center. you accept him greedily, hissing through the dull sting until the rest of your weight falls on his throbbing length. once you’re fully seated, the scandalous slap of skin on skin echoes through the room. his desperate moans and a string of curses follow.
finally, finally, you feel so incredibly whole.
you moan, lewd and lascivious, and lean down to kiss the center of his chest.
“was i good?” he asks, rapid pants fanning the crown of your head. “you feel so good. is this good?”
when you raise your head, he sits up on his elbows, eager to kiss your lips in grateful reciprocity.
it doesn’t take much to dodge him. grinning, you splay your hand across his now flushed chest and push him back down, earning a whiny, defeated groan. sinking impossibly deeper, you give his nose a conciliatory peck.
“shhh. just stay like this. you don’t have to do anything,” you murmur into his skin. “that break you wanted earlier? we can take it now. i want to get used to this feeling. don’t you?”
LI: Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, & Caleb
Synopsis: The lads men lose their minds when they catch you wearing their clothes.
Warnings/Tropes: Explicit, MDNI. Established Relationship, Size Difference, Dubious Consent (Dubcon), Somnophilia (Xavier), Oviposition/Egg Insertion (Rafayel), Spitting (Zayne), Fingering, Degradation, Praise Kink, Overstimulation, & Rough Sex. (holy kink list-)
WC: Roughly 800 words per LI.
♡ Bunny's Note: Since you guys loved the Sylus version so much, here is the rest of the boys! ₍ ᐢ.ˬ.ᐢ₎
Xavier Ი𐑼₊⊹
Xavier had just finished up with a mission, eager to head back to his sweet girl and sleep the exhaustion away. He walked into your apartment, the door clicking shut softly behind him as his eyes immediately landed on your figure. You were curled up on the sofa, looking like you had fallen asleep right in the middle of a show. The TV was still on, its changing lights illuminating the soft contours of your face and body.
He stepped closer, intending to wake you up gently, when he realized what you were wearing. Clad in nothing but his white hoodie, there you were adorably snuggled up, the fabric big enough on your frame to act as a makeshift blanket. His heart melted at the sight, but a sudden, hot wave of possession curled low in his stomach right alongside it.
He hadn't realized until this exact moment just how much he loved seeing you in his clothes.
Crouching down to your level, he slowly slid his arms under you and lifted you up, carrying you bridal style. The sudden shift in position caused the hoodie to ride up your thigh just a little, exposing the lace of your underwear. Xavier’s eyes visibly dilated at the sight.
He gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing tightly as he tried his absolute best to ignore the throb in his pants. Forcing himself to focus, he carried you down the short hallway into the bedroom so you could continue your rest comfortably. You shifted slightly in his hold as he carefully lowered you onto the mattress, but you didn't wake up. Xavier climbed in right next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him until your back was pressed perfectly against his chest.
But the thick ache in his trousers wasn't getting any easier to ignore, and the temptation right in front of him was too much. Giving in, he let his hand roam. The hem of the hoodie was completely bunched up at your waist now, leaving your lower half bare. His palm slipped beneath the fabric, tracing the warm curve of your waist before moving upward until it rested over your breasts, which were rising and falling in perfect time with your breathing. He let himself gently caress you, his fingers squeezing the soft mounds and playfully flicking your nipples, remaining careful and quiet so he wouldn't disrupt your sleep.
Eventually, though, his hand traveled lower, his fingertips ghosting over the flimsy lace right where your sweet cunt was hidden. He shouldn't.
You were sleeping so blissfully, completely unaware of the fact that you looked oh so fuckable in in his clothes. But as his fingers grazed over the fabric, they brushed against a wet spot.
Fuuuck He was going to anyway.
He pulled the flimsy cloth to the side, exposing your bare, flush folds to the cool air as he lightly rubbed you. Using two fingers to spread you open, he felt a fresh wave of your syrup leak over his knuckles. You wouldn't mind, would you?
He dipped his digits entirely inside you, the sudden, slick stretch causing you to let out a soft, subconscious whimper in your sleep.
“You take me so well even in your sleep, my star,” he whispered as he curled his fingers just right, intentionally hooking against that sensitive upper wall, earning a tight, involuntary squeeze from your walls.
“Aw, looks like she's answering for you instead.” He fingered you languidly for a while, content with the quiet, sleepy moans slipping past your lips and how incredibly receptive your pussy was for him even in your dreams.
Eventually, the friction and the sound of your slick walls coating his fingers had him hard enough to be painful. Juust the tip, he told himself, as he lined up to your entrance and prodded his way inside. But your poor hole, despite all the lubrication, had a hard time accommodating to all his girth. The way your body clenched hard around him– almost pushing his cock right back out– made Xavier throw every last shred of his rationality right out the window.
So the man gripped your hip tightly and slammed his hips forward, shoving his entire length all the way in.
And this was where you finally woke up. “HAH– Xavier??!”
“I'm sorry– ngh– I just couldn't help myself,” he gasped out, his eyes dark and totally blown out as he immediately started an unforgiving pace, holding you in place by your hips as he fucked you deep.
“Wait– t-too big!” you cried out, your hands blindly reaching back to find purchase on his arms.
But he was far, far gone. He leaned over you, biting and sucking hungrily on your shoulder, leaving dark marks and bruises where his hands were pinning you to the mattress.
“You can't complain now, starlight,” he groaned against your skin, his thrusts hitting your sweet spot with a relentless rhythm. “It's almost like you did this on purpose. Wearing that... your pretty little pussy was practically begging to be filled.”
Zayne ❄︎⛄︎
Stepping out of the shower, you wrapped yourself in a towel, water droplets still trickling down your hair and shoulders. You made your way into the closet, intending to get dressed, when something caught your eye. There it was, Zayne’s favorite black shirt, neatly folded in one of the laundry baskets. Something about it was.. tempting. Zayne wore it practically all the time; you even suspected he owned multiple identical pairs. You wondered why he was so attached to it, so you figured you’d steal it for the day.
The moment you slipped it on, all your questions were answered. The fabric was incredibly comfortable. When zayne wore it, it looked like an exact fit, perhaps even tight around his broad shoulders. On you, however, unbuttoning just the top two buttons caused the collar to droop completely past your frame, revealing an expanse of skin and one bare shoulder, while the hem practically reached down to your knees.
Content with how it smelled like him, you padded over to the kitchen to fix a snack for the two of you. You assumed he was still working in his study and planned to pull him away for a break, showing off your new outfit while you were at it. But it seemed he beat you to the punch.
Zayne had just wandered into the living room, seeking a much-needed break from his desk. It just so happened that when he walked into the kitchen, he found you in a rather… interesting state.
You were tiptoeing to reach something on the top shelf, causing the hem of his shirt to ride up and expose the curve of your ass. A faint blush dusted the tips of Zayne's ears at the sight. Seeing you drowning in his shirt made him feel things he was unprepared for. Like he wanted to protect you from the world, yet devour you all the same. The rush of it all went straight down, a very obvious bulge now straining his pants.
He closed the distance silently. He planted one hand firmly on your hip while his other hand came down to give your rear a firm, sudden squeeze. You squeaked at the contact.
“I see a little thief is on the loose”
You were propped up securely on Zayne’s lap, your legs straddling his hips as you gripped his shoulders to keep your balance. The black shirt, now unbuttoned almost entirely down to your navel, bunched around your elbows, leaving your chest completely bare and your nipples peaking against the cool air of the room.
His large hands anchored your hips, effortlessly lifting your weight up before pulling you right back down onto his fat cock.
“zaynie..,” you whimpered, your walls clamping tight around the massive stretch of him, while the man in front of you looked utterly concentrated, his gaze fixed on the way you took him in.
It seemed to just now click in his head that you were, in fact, much smaller than he is. Suddenly, all those initial times of intimacy, where you struggled and sobbed over his dick, made much more sense. Back then, he had just chalked it up to your inexperience, and also obviously that he wasn’t exactly a petite man. Yet for some odd reason, he hadn't realized the true extent of it. Until now, that is.
He drew your hips up again, just to snap them right back down.
“Such a good girl for me, working so hard to take my dick.”
He leaned over to grip your face, his other hand curling at the base of your skull. “You deserve a reward, don't you?” Your eyes had completely glazed over, and you nodded your head frantically. “Stick your tongue out, darling,” he prompted, his thumb rubbing your bottom lip. You obeyed without missing a beat.
And he spat right in your mouth. “Swallow.”
The contact made you tip over the edge instantly, his taste making your pussy spasm uncontrollably, yet you tried to focus and do as he said. You swallowed dutifully with an audible gulp, showing him the evidence by sticking your tongue out once more.
Zayne smiled, thoroughly satisfied by your obedience, and he caught you in a wet kiss, sucking on your exposed tongue, his own soon joining in.
He loved the way you molded to him and his cock.
Rafayel ｡˚○ ⚓︎
It was three days to Ebb Day, and this came with the severe consequence of you being utterly tied to your lover, rafayel.
He had wanted to hide away at first, just like he did every single year, terrified that he would be too rough, too intense, and simply too much for you to handle. But after a whole shitload of convincing and a few heated preliminary rounds in the initial days leading up to it, Rafayel had finally agreed to let you stay with him through this.
You had just finished yet another grueling session with him in the shower. Knowing he wanted to enjoy the coolness of the water for a while longer, you stepped out early, craving some much-needed rest and a brief moment of alone time before your needy boyfriend came back begging to fill you up yet again.
After getting dressed, a violent shiver ran through your body. The flimsy material of your t-shirt and shorts did absolutely nothing to spare you from the freezing temperatures Rafayel had set his home to, a desperate counter-measure for how much he was constantly burning up. In hindsight, you really should have brought warmer clothes.
Not thinking twice, you reached over and stole Rafayel's cardigan, which was draped haphazardly over a nearby chair. The material was thick enough and big enough on your frame for you to completely wrap yourself up in it, a little consolation against the biting chill. Wrapped tightly in his scent, you relaxed onto his sofa, playing some random TV show as you zoned out.
After an hour or so, Rafayel finally walked out of the bathroom with nothing but a low-hanging towel draped around his lean waist, immediately seeking out your whereabouts. When he did eventually find you, lazing over in the living room, all his instincts flared up into overdrive the second he saw what you were wearing.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. All fucking mine.
He closed the distance instantly. Noticing his sudden presence, you looked up and chirped, “oh hey! How was your showe—” He didn't even let you finish your sentence. Rafayel pinned you flat against the cushions of the sofa as he hovered on top of you.
“I must say, very brave of you to wear that in my current condition, Miss bodyguard.”
Rafayel was rutting into you at an intense pace, already at it for hours since he stepped out of the shower, his stamina seeming to be completely bottomless. He had you pinned helplessly beneath him in an obscene mating press, your lower half spread out completely as he relentlessly used your already spent, aching hole.
“You humans... so fragile, so small,” he hissed out almost wondrously, his voice a breathless purr as he watched the friction of his movements. “Yet you can still keep up with me, cutie.”
You weren't even sure what he was talking about, because in your own head, you could barely keep up at all. All you could do was lay limp and twitching while his hands moved you into whatever positions he wanted you to be in.
But this time, rafayel had other plans with you, mind filling with all sorts of filthy thoughts, especially those involving how your little body would bulge out with all the eggs he was going to put inside you.
Without a single word of warning, he pinned your thighs deeper into your own chest, forcing your knees up on either side of your face before he suddenly stilled. Pulled out of your dazed state by the abrupt pause, you looked up at him confusedly, opening your mouth to speak before the words dissolved into a half scream, half moan.
“AHH– raf why is it– ack!” you were unable to move under his tight hold, “why is it growing??!!!”
“Shh– it's okay, cutie. c’mon... I know you can take it,” he cooed softly. He reached up, stroking your flushed cheek with a gentleness that felt entirely contrasting to how harshly his thick dick was stretching you out, practically breaking you.
Right as you thought you couldn't take any more, he stretched out fully, his tip slipping into place against your sensitive cervix as a singular egg intruded its way deep inside you. The round, distinct outline became instantly visible through your skin, your lower belly visibly bulging outward to accommodate everything being stuffed into your womb.
“Raf- hah-” your nails dug harshly into his shoulders, not realising you were drawing blood. Yet the dazed lemurian was too lost in his own greed, warm hand sliding down to caress over where the egg perfectly slotted inside you.
His eyes darted back to your face, pupils blown out to the point where he looked insane.
“Can I do that again? Pretty please?”
Caleb ૮･ﻌ･ა ⌯⌲
You just reached back home after dropping a book off at your friend’s house, walking through the front door and slipping off your shoes. Passing by the living room, you saw Josephine still watching TV, exactly as you’d left her. You quickly ran up the stairs, eager to finally snuggle back into your blankets.
But walking into your room, you were instead met with Caleb sitting on the edge of your bed. His hands were folded, a deep scowl etched onto his face— yet it flickered into something different for a fraction of a second when he looked up at you. .
Earlier that day, he had just gotten done after hours of brutal studying, so naturally he went looking for you. But when he asked Josephine, he was met with the fact that you had gone over to a friend’s house to drop something off. Specifically, the one guy Caleb already had a faint idea was interested in you.
Caleb was seething about it too, planning all sorts of endings for the guy, and more importantly, all the ways he was gonna thoroughly discipline you before you ever thought about going to another man’s house again.
Yet when you walked in, seeing what you were wearing, his anger seemed to melt off just a little. You were wearing your usual jean shorts and a t-shirt, but those were unimportant. What really caught his eye was the fact that you were wearing his D.A.A. jacket.
“Oh caleb! Wat’cha doin’ here”, you asked, flashing him a confused smile.
Caleb tilted his head, his frustrated expression melting into a slow, cocky smirk. Perhaps it wasn't as bad as he thought. Sure, you had stolen his clothes before, and Caleb absolutely loved it when you did– doting on how cute and small you looked in them, sometimes even not-so-subtly encouraging you to wear them despite all your own clothes being clean and ready in your closet.
Oh but this time, it was something about owning you, he thought. Something about his claim on you being visible in front of everyone, especially the men who thought they actually stood a chance with you.
He definitely wasn't mad anymore, but the painful wedge in his pants wasn't gonna let him drop what he had planned.
Your back was pressed hard against his chest, your thighs spread completely apart to the cold air of the room, entirely naked except for his jacket slipping off your shoulders.
Your vision was blurring, heavy tears forming from his deft fingers working at your sex. His two middle fingers were pumping relentlessly in and out of you, drawing out slick, soaking sounds and ragged whimpers from your mouth, which were muffled by his other hand tightly clamped over your lips.
“Shh, don't be loud now, pipsqueak. Don’t want grammy to hear us, do we?” He murmured, accompanying the words by curling his middle finger against that one spongy spot, pressing and rubbing it until you drooled helplessly against his palm and curled your toes hard against the sheets.
You could practically hear the smirk framing his face right now, mocking you as he intentionally did everything that was going against you being able to be quiet.
Your hand, which had been weakly gripping his wrist over your face, tapped against his skin, prompting him to take it off so you could finally speak.
“aah– Caleb, I can't anymore! I want your–”
“My cock?” He chuckled softly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as his fingers shifted inside you to hit that exact spot again. “Nah. You don't just get to run off to another man's house and come back expecting a reward. You’ll get it when I say you’ll get it.”
You squirmed desperately against his tight grip. “It's not– it's not like that.” You could barely keep your thoughts straight; Caleb sounded entirely too casual for a man who was currently knuckles deep inside you.
“Plus, I doubt you can handle more. Look at you, struggling already.” He used his free hand to tilt your head down, forcing you to look at the filthy scene of your own hole stretching around just two of his thick fingers, your slick release dripping down onto the mattress.
You clamped down hard on his hand at the sight, yet you were completely insatiable, eager to feel him inside you instead.
“But noo– ” Caleb immediately pulled his fingers out of your cunt, a loud, wet squelch following the action before he stuffed them straight into your mouth instead, forcing you to taste yourself.
“Tch. You talk too much,” he purred, his thumb brushing against your cheek as you instinctively sucked on his wet digits. “Shut up and behave, and I might consider indulging you.”
